LITTLE 
RIVERS 

:P/ 

3ILHENKY  VAN  DYKE 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

From  the  Bequest 

of 
GLADYS  TILDEN 


sT; 


BY  HENRY  VAN  DYKE 

The  Valley  of  Vision 
Fighting  for  Peace 
The  Unknown  Quantity 
The  Ruling  Passion 
The  Blue  Flower 

Out -of -Door  s  in  the  Holy  Land 
Days  Off 
Little  Rivers 
Fisherman's  Luck 

Poems,  Collection  in  one  volume 

Golden  Stars 

The  Red  Flower 

The  Grand  Canyon,  and  Other 

The  White  Bees,  and  Other  Poems 

The  Builders,  and  Other  Poems 

Music,  and  Other  Poems 

The  Toiling  of  Felix,  and  Other 

The  House  of  Rimmon 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


LITTLE    RIVERS 


The  noise  of  the   falls  makes  constant 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

A  BOOK  OF  ESSAYS  IN 
PROFITABLE   IDLENESS 


BY 
HENRY    VAN    DYKE 


"And  suppose  he  take  nothing,  yet  he  enjoyeth  a  delightfull 
walk  by  pleasant  Rivers,  in  sweet  Pastures,  amongst  odoriferous 
Flowers,  which  gratifle  his  Senses,  and  delight  his  Mind ;  which 
Contentments  induce  many  (who  affect  not  Angling)  to  choose 
those  places  of  pleasure  for  their  summer  Recreation  and  Health." 
COL.  ROBERT  VKNABLBS,  The  Experienced  Angler.  1662. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


MDCCCCXX 


Copyright,  1895,  1903,  by  Charles  Scribner's  Son* 


Published,  Septer*6er,  z&tf.  Reprinted,  Dectmler, 
1835;  January,  April,  December,  t8qb;  May,  iScft: 
January,  August,  October,  1898;  May,  IQOO;  Jan- 
uary, October,  IQOI;  August,  iqos;  March,  tQOjf 
January,  iQo8. 

Cameo  Edition,  Published,  September,  r&ff.  X+ 
printed,  January,  August,  i8q8;  April,  December, 
l8qq;  May,  IQOI. 

New  Editiin  from  New  Plates,  Published,  Septem- 
ber, 1003.  Reprinted,  October,  1903;  October,  iqf>4: 
August,  IQOS:  July,  iQo6;  May,  1007;  March,  Decem- 
ber, iqoS;  November,  iqoq;  A  ugust,  IQII;  Octobert 
IQI2,"  October,  1914;  June,  iQib;  May,  1917;  Septet*- 
ber,  iQi8;  January,  1920. 


Walton  Edition,  limited  to  ijo  copies,  April,  i8qb. 

Leather  Edition,  September,  IQII. 
Reprinted,  July,  1913;  October,  IQIJ;  February,  IQIJ. 


DEDICATION 

To  one  who  wanders  by  my  side 
As  cheerfully  as  waters  glide ; 
Whose  eyes  are  brown  as  woodland  streams, 
And  very  fair  and  full  of  dreams ; 
Whose  heart  is  like  a  mountain  spring, 
Whose  thoughts  like  merry  rivers  sing  s 
To  her — my  little  daughter  Brooke— 
1  dedicate  this  little  book. 


CONTENTS 

/.  Prelude  1 

//.  Little  Rivers  7 

///.  A  Leaf  of  Spearmint  87 

IV.  Ampersand  67 

V.  A  Handful  of  Heather  93 

VI.  The  Ristigouche  from  a  Horse-Yacht      135 

VII.  Alpenrosen  and  Goafs-Milk  165 

VIII.  Au  Large  215 

IX.  Trout-Fishing  in  the  Traun  267 

X.  At  the  Sign  of  the  Balsam  Bough        295 

XL  A  Song  after  Sundown  337 

Index 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

From  drawings  by  F.  V.  DuMond 
The  noise  of  the  falls  makes  constant  music  Frontispiece 

Facing 

The  farmers''  daughters  with  bare  arms   and  page 
gowns  tucked  up  30 

The    bed   whereon    memory   loves    to    lie  and 
dream  40 

Memory  Is  a  capricious  and  arbitrary  creature  120 
Lulling  and  soothing  the  mind  into  a  quietude  162 
The  same  that  Titian  saw  174 

The  moon  slips   up  into   the  sky  from  behind 
the  Eastern  hills  292 

If  I  sitould  ever  become  a  dryad  I  should  choose 
to  be  transformed  into  a  white  birch  304 


PRELUDE 


LITTLE    RIVERS 


**  There's  no  music  like  a  little  river's.  It  plays  the  same  tune  (and  that's 
the  favourite)  over  and  over  again,  and  yet  does  not  weary  of  it  like  men 
fiddlers.  It  takes  the  mind  out  of  doors  /  and  though  we  should  be  grate- 
ful for  good  houses,  there  is,  after  all,  no  house  like  God's  out-of-doors. 
And  lastly,  sir,  it  quiets  a  man  down  like  saying  his  prayers." — ROBEBT 
Louis  STEVENSON  :  Prince  Otto. 


AN    ANGLER'S   WISH   IN   TOWN 

When  tulips  bloom  in  Union  Square, 
And  timid  breaths  of  vernal  air 

Are  wandering  down  the  dusty  town. 
Like  children  lost  in  Vanity  Fair; 

When  every  long,  unlovely  row 
Of  westward  houses  stands  aglow 

And  leads  the  eyes  toward  sunset  skies, 
Beyond  the  hills  where  green  trees  grow; 

Then  weary  is  the  street  parade, 
And  weary  books,  and  weary  trade: 
I  'm  only  wishing  to  go  a-fishing; 
For  this  the  month  of  May  was  made. 


I  guest  the  pussy-willows  now 
Are  creeping  out  on  every  bough 

Along  the  brook ;  and  robins  look 
For  early  worms  behind  the  plough. 
3 


PRELUDE 

The  thistle-birds  have  changed  their  dun 
For  yellow  coats  to  match  the  sun; 
And  in  the  same  array  of  flame 
The  Dandelion  Show's  begun. 

The  flocks  of  young  anemones 

Are  dancing  round  the  budding  treet: 

Who  can  help  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  as  full  of  joy  as  these? 


I  think  the  meadow-lark's  clear  sound 
Leaks  upward  slowly  from  the  ground, 
While  on  the  wing  the  bluebirds  ring 
Their  wedding-bells  to  woods  around: 

The  flirting  chewink  calls  his  dear 
Behind  the  bush;  and  very  near, 

Where  water  flows,  where  green  grass  growf, 
Song-sparrows  gently  sing,  "Good  cheer:99 

And,  best  of  all,  through  twilight's  calm 
The  hermit-thrush  repeats  his  psalm: 

How  much  I  'm  wishing  to  go  a-fishing 
In  days  to  sweet  with  music's  balm! 


AN    ANGLER'S    WISH    IN    TOWN 

'T  it  not  a  proud  desire  of  mine; 
I  ask  for  nothing  superfine; 

No  heavy  weight,  no  salmon  great, 
To  break  the  record,  or  my  line: 

Only  an  idle  little  stream, 

Whose  amber  maters  softly  gleam. 

Where  I  may  wade,  through  woodland  shade, 
And  cast  the  fly,  and  loaf,  and  dream: 

Only  a  trout  or  two,  to  dart 

From  foaming  pools,  and  try  my  art: 

No  more  I  'm  wishing — old-fashioned  fishing, 
And  just  a  day  on  Nature's  heart* 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

A  RIVER  is  the  most  human  and  companion- 
able of  all  inanimate  things.  It  has  a  life,  a  char- 
acter, a  voice  of  its  own,  and  is  as  full  of  good 
fellowship  as  a  sugar-maple  is  of  sap.  It  can  talk 
in  various  tones,  loud  or  low,  and  of  many  sub- 
jects, grave  and  gay.  Under  favourable  circum- 
stances it  will  even  make  a  shift  to  sing,  not  in  a 
fashion  that  can  be  reduced  to  notes  and  set  down 
in  black  and  white  on  a  sheet  of  paper,  but  in  a 
vague,  refreshing  manner,  and  to  a  wandering  air 
that  goes 

*  Over  the  kills  and  far  away** 

For  real  company  and  friendship,  there  is  noth- 
ing outside  of  the  animal  kingdom  that  is  com- 
parable to  a  river. 

I  will  admit  that  a  very  good  case  can  be  made 
out  in  favour  of  some  other  objects  of  natural 
affection.  For  example,  a  fair  apology  has  been 
offered  by  those  ambitious  persons  who  have  fallen 

9 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

in  love  with  the  sea.  But,  after  all,  that  is  a  form- 
less and  disquieting  passion.  It  lacks  solid  comfort 
and  mutual  confidence.  The  sea  is  too  big  for 
loving,  and  too  uncertain.  It  will  not  fit  into  our 
thoughts.  It  has  no  personality  because  it  has  so 
many.  It  is  a  salt  abstraction.  You  might  as  well 
think  of  loving  a  glittering  generality  like  "the 
American  woman."  One  would  be  more  to  the 
purpose. 

Mountains  are  more  satisfying  because  they  are 
more  individual.  It  is  possible  to  feel  a  very  strong 
attachment  for  a  certain  range  whose  outline  has 
grown  familiar  to  our  eyes,  or  a  clear  peak  that 
has  looked  down,  day  after  day,  upon  our  joys 
and  sorrows,  moderating  our  passions  with  its  calm 
aspect.  We  come  back  from  our  travels,  and  the 
sight  of  such  a  well-known  mountain  is  like  meet- 
ing an  old  friend  unchanged.  But  it  is  a  one-sided 
affection.  The  mountain  is  voiceless  and  impertur- 
bable ;  and  its  very  loftiness  and  serenity  sometimes 
make  us  the  more  lonely. 

Trees  seem  to  come  closer  to  our  life.  They  are 
often  rooted  in  our  richest  feelings,  and  our  sweet- 

10 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

est  memories,  like  birds,  build  nests  in  their  branches. 
I  remember,  the  last  time  that  I  saw  James  Russell 
Lowell,  (only  a  few  weeks  before  his  musical  voice 
was  hushed,)  he  walked  out  with  me  into  the  quiet 
garden  at  Elmwood  to  say  good-bye.  There  was 
a  great  horse-chestnut  tree  beside  the  house,  tow- 
ering above  the  gable,  and  covered  with  blossoms 
from  base  to  summit, — a  pyramid  of  green  sup- 
porting a  thousand  smaller  pyramids  of  white.  The 
poet  looked  up  at  it  with  his  gray,  pain-furrowed 
face,  and  laid  his  trembling  hand  upon  the  trunk. 
"I  planted  the  nut,"  said  he,  "from  which  this  tree 
grew.  And  my  father  was  with  me  and  showed  me 
how  to  plant  it." 

Yes,  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be  said  in  behalf  of 
tree-worship;  and  when  I  recline  with  my  friend 
Tityrus  beneath  the  shade  of  his  favourite  oak, 
I  consent  in  his  devotions.  But  when  I  invite 
him  with  me  to  share  my  orisons,  or  wander  alone 
to  indulge  the  luxury  of  grateful,  unlaborious 
thought,  my  feet  turn  not  to  a  tree,  but  to  the 
bank  of  a  river,  for  there  the  musings  of  solitude 
find  a  friendly  accompaniment,  and  human  inter- 
11 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

course  is  purified  and  sweetened  by  the  flowing, 
murmuring  water.  It  is  by  a  river  that  I  would 
choose  to  make  love,  and  to  revive  old  friendships, 
and  to  play  with  the  children,  and  to  confess  my 
faults,  and  to  escape  from  vain,  selfish  desires,  and 
to  cleanse  my  mind  from  all  the  false  and  foolish 
things  that  mar  the  joy  and  peace  of  living.  Like 
David's  hart,  I  pant  for  the  water-brooks.  There 
is  wisdom  in  the  advice  of  Seneca,  who  says, 
"Where  a  spring  rises,  or  a  river  flows,  there 
should  we  build  altars  and  offer  sacrifices." 

The  personality  of  a  river  is  not  to  be  found  in 
its  water,  nor  in  its  bed,  nor  in  its  shore.  Either 
of  these  elements,  by  itself,  would  be  nothing.  Con- 
fine the  fluid  contents  of  the  noblest  stream  in  a 
walled  channel  of  stone,  and  it  ceases  to  be  a 
stream;  it  becomes  what  Charles  Lamb  calls  "a 
mockery  of  a  river — a  liquid  artifice — a  wretched 
conduit."  But  take  away  the  water  from  the  most 
beautiful  river-banks,  and  what  is  left?  An  ugly 
road  with  none  to  travel  it;  a  long,  ghastly  scar 
on  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

The  life  of  a  river,  like  that  of  a  human  being, 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

consists  in  the  union  of  soul  and  body,  the  water 
and  the  banks.  They  belong  together.  They  act 
and  react  upon  each  other.  The  stream  moulds  and 
makes  the  shore;  hollowing  out  a  bay  here,  and 
building  a  long  point  there;  alluring  the  little 
bushes  close  to  its  side,  and  bending  the  tall  slim 
trees  over  its  current;  sweeping  a  rocky  ledge 
clean  of  everything  but  moss,  and  sending  a  still 
lagoon  full  of  white  arrow-heads  and  rosy  knot- 
weed  far  back  into  the  meadow.  The  shore  guides 
and  controls  the  stream;  now  detaining  and  now 
advancing  it ;  now  bending  it  in  a  hundred  sinuous 
curves,  and  now  speeding  it  straight  as  a  wild-bee 
on  its  homeward  flight;  here  hiding  the  water  in 
a  deep  cleft  overhung  with  green  branches,  and 
there  spreading  it  out,  like  a  mirror  framed  in 
daisies,  to  reflect  the  sky  and  the  clouds;  some- 
times breaking  it  with  sudden  turns  and  unexpected 
falls  into  a  foam  of  musical  laughter,  sometimes 
soothing  it  into  a  sleepy  motion  like  the  flow  of  a 
dream. 

Is  it  otherwise  with  the  men  and  women  whom 
we  know  and  like?  Does  not  the  spirit  influence 

13 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  form,  and  the  form  affect  the  spirit?  Can  we 
divide  and  separate  them  in  our  affections? 

I  am  no  friend  to  purely  psychological  attach- 
ments. In  some  unknown  future  they  may  be  sat- 
isfying, but  in  the  present  I  want  your  words  and 
your  voice  with  your  thoughts,  your  looks  and 
your  gestures  to  interpret  your  feelings.  The 
warm,  strong  grasp  of  Greatheart's  hand  is  as  dear 
to  me  as  the  steadfast  fashion  of  his  friendships; 
the  lively,  sparkling  eyes  of  the  master  of  Rudder 
Grange  charm  me  as  much  as  the  nimbleness  of  his 
fancy;  and  the  firm  poise  of  the  Hoosier  School- 
master's shaggy  head  gives  me  new  confidence  in 
the  solidity  of  his  views  of  life.  I  like  the  pure 
tranquillity  of  Isabel's  brow  as  well  as  her 

<e  most  silver  flow 
Of  subtle-paced  counsel  in  distress.'* 

The  soft  cadences  and  turns  in  my  lady  Katrina's 
speech  draw  me  into  the  humour  of  her  gentle 
judgments  of  men  and  things.  The  touches  of 
quaintness  in  Angelica's  dress,  her  folded  kerchief 
and  smooth-parted  hair,  seem  to  partake  of  her- 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

self,  and  enhance  my  admiration  for  the  sweet 
order  of  her  thoughts  and  her  old-fashioned  ideals 
of  love  and  duty.  Even  so  the  stream  and  its  chan- 
nel are  one  life,  and  I  cannot  think  of  the  swift, 
brown  flood  of  the  Batiscan  without  its  shadowing 
primeval  forests,  or  the  crystalline  current  of  the 
Boquet  without  its  beds  of  pebbles  and  golden  sand 
and  grassy  banks  embroidered  with  flowers. 

Every  country — or  at  least  every  country  that 
is  fit  for  habitation — has  its  own  rivers ;  and  every 
river  has  its  own  quality ;  and  it  is  the  part  of  wis- 
dom to  know  and  love  as  many  as  you  can,  seeing 
each  in  the  fairest  possible  light,  and  receiving 
from  each  the  best  that  it  has  to  give.  The  tor- 
rents of  Norway  leap  down  from  their  mountain 
home  with  plentiful  cataracts,  and  run  brief  but 
glorious  races  to  the  sea.  The  streams  of  England 
move  smoothly  through  green  fields  and  beside 
ancient,  sleepy  towns.  The  Scotch  rivers  brawl 
through  the  open  moorland  and  flash  along  steep 
Highland  glens.  The  rivers  of  the  Alps  are  born 
in  icy  caves,  from  which  they  issue  forth  with  furi- 
ous,, turbid  waters;  but  when  their  anger  has  been 
15 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

forgotten  in  the  slumber  of  some  blue  lake,  they 
flow  down  more  softly  to  see  the  vineyards  of 
France  and  Italy,  the  gray  castles  of  Germany, 
the  verdant  meadows  of  Holland.  The  mighty 
rivers  of  the  West  roll  their  yellow  floods  through 
broad  valleys,  or  plunge  down  dark  canons.  The 
rivers  of  the  South  creep  under  dim  arboreal  arch- 
ways hung  with  banners  of  waving  moss.  The 
Delaware  and  the  Hudson  and  the  Connecticut  are 
the  children  of  the  Catskills  and  the  Adirondacks 
and  the  White  Mountains,  cradled  among  the  for- 
ests of  spruce  and  hemlock,  playing  through  a 
wild  woodland  youth,  gathering  strength  from 
numberless  tributaries  to  bear  their  great  burdens 
of  lumber  and  turn  the  wheels  of  many  mills,  issu- 
ing from  the  hills  to  water  a  thousand  farms,  and 
descending  at  last,  beside  new  cities,  to  the  ancient 
sea. 

Every  river  that  flows  is  good,  and  has  some- 
thing worthy  to  be  loved.  But  those  that  we  love 
most  are  always  the  ones  that  we  have  known  best, 
— the  stream  that  ran  before  our  father's  door, 
the  current  on  which  we  ventured  our  first  boat  or 

16 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

cast  our  first  fly,  the  brook  on  whose  banks  we 
first  picked  the  twinflower  of  young  love.  How- 
ever far  we  may  travel,  we  come  back  to  Naaman's 
state  of  mind:  "Are  not  Abana  and  Pharpar, 
rivers  of  Damascus,  better  than  all  the  waters 
of  Israel?" 

It  is  with  rivers  as  it  is  with  people :  the  greatest 
are  not  always  the  most  agreeable,  nor  the  best  to 
live  with.  Diogenes  must  have  been  an  uncomfort- 
able bedfellow :  Antinoiis  was  bored  to  death  in  the 
society  of  the  Emperor  Hadrian:  and  you  can 
imagine  much  better  company  for  a  walking  trip 
than  Napoleon  Bonaparte.  Semiramis  was  a  k>fty 
queen,  but  I  fancy  that  Ninus  had  more  than  one 
bad  quarter-of-an-hour  with  her :  and  in  "the  spa- 
cious times  of  great  Elizabeth"  there  was  many  a 
milkmaid  whom  the  wise  man  would  have  chosen 
for  his  friend,  before  the  royal  red-haired  virgin. 
"I  confess,"  says  the  poet  Cowley,  "I  love  Little- 
ness almost  in  all  things.  A  little  convenient  Estate, 
a  little  chearful  House,  a  little  Company,  a«d  a 
very  little  Feast,  and  if  I  were  ever  to  fall  in  Love 
again,  (which  is  a  great  Passion,  and  therefore,  I 

17 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

hope,  I  have  done  with  it,)  it  would  be,  I  think, 
with  Prettiness,  rather  than  with  Majestical 
Beauty.  I  would  neither  wish  that  my  Mistress, 
nor  my  Fortune,  should  be  a  Bona  Roba,  as  Homer 
uses  to  describe  his  Beauties,  like  a  daughter  of 
great  Jupiter  for  the  stateliness  and  largeness  of 
her  Person,  but  as  Lucretius  says : 

'Parvula,  pumilio,  Xapirwv  fuo,  iota  merum  sal.9  '* 

Now  in  talking  about  women  it  is  prudent  to 
disguise  a  prejudice  like  this,  in  the  security  of  a 
dead  language,  and  to  intrench  it  behind  a  fortress 
of  reputable  authority.  But  in  lowlier  and  less  dan- 
gerous matters,  such  as  we  are  now  concerned  with, 
one  may  dare  to  speak  in  plain  English.  I  am  all 
for  the  little  rivers.  Let  those  who  will,  chant  in 
heroic  verse  the  renown  of  Amazon  and  Mississippi 
and  Niagara,  but  my  prose  shall  flow — or  straggle 
along  at  such  a  pace  as  the  prosaic  muse  may  grant 
me  to  attain — in  praise  of  Beaverkill  and  Never- 
sink  and  Swiftwater,  of  Saranac  and  Raquette  and 
Ausable,  of  Allegash  and  Aroostook  and  Moose 
River.  "Whene'er  I  take  my  walks  abroad,"  it  shall 

18 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

be  to  trace  the  clear  Rauma  from  its  rise  on  the 
fjeld  to  its  rest  in  the  fjord;  or  to  follow  the 
Ericht  and  the  Halladale  through  the  heather. 
The  Ziller  and  the  Salzach  shall  be  my  guides 
through  the  Tyrol;  the  Rotha  and  the  Dove  shall 
lead  me  into  the  heart  of  England.  My  sacrificial 
flames  shall  be  kindled  with  birch-bark  along  the 
wooded  stillwaters  of  the  Penobscot  and  the  Peri- 
bonca,  and  my  libations  drawn  from  the  pure  cur- 
rent of  the  Ristigouche  and  the  Ampersand,  and 
my  altar  of  remembrance  shall  rise  upon  the  rocks 
beside  the  falls  of  Seboomok. 

I  will  set  my  affections  upon  rivers  that  are  not 
too  great  for  intimacy.  And  if  by  chance  any  of 
these  little  ones  have  also  become  famous,  like  the 
Tweed  and  the  Thames  and  the  Arno,  I  at  least 
will  praise  them,  because  they  are  still  at  heart 
little  rivers. 

If  an  open  fire  is,  as  Charles  Dudley  Warner 
says,  the  eye  of  a  room;  then  surely  a  little  river 
may  be  called  the  mouth,  the  most  expressive  feat- 
ure, of  a  landscape.  It  animates  and  enlivens  the 
whole  scene.  Even  a  railway  journey  becomes  tol- 
19 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

erable  when  the  track  follows  the  course  of  a  run* 
ning  stream. 

What  charming  glimpses  you  catch  from  the 
window  as  the  train  winds  along  the  valley  of  the 

French  Broad  from  Asheville,  or  climbs  the  south- 

• 
ern  Catskills  beside  the  JEsopus,  or  slides  down  the 

Pusterthal  with  the  Rienz,  or  follows  the  Glommen 
and  the  Gula  from  Christiania  to  Throndhjem. 
Here  is  a  mill  with  its  dripping,  lazy  wheel,  the 
type  of  somnolent  industry;  and  there  is  a  white 
cascade,  foaming  in  silent  pantomime  as  the  train 
clatters  by;  and  here  is  a  long,  still  pool  with  the 
cows  standing  knee-deep  in  the  water  and  swinging 
their  tails  in  calm  indifference  to  the  passing  world ; 
and  there  is  a  lone  fisherman  sitting  upon  a  rock, 
rapt  in  contemplation  of  the  point  of  his  rod.  For 
a  moment  you  become  a  partner  of  his  tranquil 
enterprise.  You  turn  around,  you  crane  your  neck 
to  get  the  last  sight  of  his  motionless  angle.  You 
do  not  know  what  kind  of  fish  he  expects  to  catch, 
nor  what  species  of  bait  he  is  using,  but  at  least 
you  pray  that  he  may  have  a  bite  before  the  train 
swings  around  the  next  curve.  And  if  perchance 

20 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

your  wish  Is  granted,  and  you  see  him  gravely 
draw  some  unknown,  reluctant,  shining  reward  of 
patience  from  the  water,  you  feel  like  swinging 
your  hat  from  the  window  and  crying  out  "Good 
luck !" 

Little  rivers  seem  to  have  the  indefinable  quality 
that  belongs  to  certain  people  in  the  world, — the 
power  of  drawing  attention  without  courting  it, 
the  faculty  of  exciting  interest  by  their  very  pres- 
ence and  way  of  doing  things. 

The  most  fascinating  part  of  a  city  or  town  is 
that  through  which  the  water  flows.  Idlers  always 
choose  a  bridge  for  their  place  of  meditation  when 
they  can  get  it;  and,  failing  that,  you  will  find 
them  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a  quay  or  embankment, 
with  their  feet  hanging  over  the  water.  What  a 
piquant  mingling  of  indolence  and  vivacity  you 
can  enjoy  by  the  river-side!  The  best  point  of  view 
in  Rome,  to  my  taste,  is  the  Ponte  San  Angelo; 
and  in  Florence  or  Pisa  I  never  tire  of  loafing 
along  the  Lung'  Arno.  You  do  not  know  London 
until  you  have  seen  it  from  the  Thames.  And  you 
will  miss  the  charm  of  Cambridge  unless  you  take 
21 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

a  little  boat  and  go  drifting  on  the  placid  Cam, 
beneath  the  bending  trees,  along  the  backs  of  the 
colleges. 

But  the  real  way  to  know  a  little  river  is  not  to 
glance  at  it  here  or  there  in  the  course  of  a  hasty 
journey,  nor  to  become  acquainted  with  it  after  it 
has  been  partly  civilised  and  spoiled  by  too  close 
contact  with  the  works  of  man.  You  must  go  to 
its  native  haunts;  you  must  see  it  in  youth  and 
freedom;  you  must  accommodate  yourself  to  its 
pace,  and  give  yourself  to  its  influence,  and  fol- 
low its  meanderings  whithersoever  they  may  lead 
you. 

Now,  of  this  pleasant  pastime  there  are  three 
principal  forms.  You  may  go  as  a  walker,  taking 
the  river-side  path,  or  making  a  way  for  yourself 
through  the  tangled  thickets  or  across  the  open 
meadows.  You  may  go  as  a  sailor,  launching  your 
light  canoe  on  the  swift  current  and  committing 
yourself  for  a  day,  or  a  week,  or  a  month,  to  the 
delightful  uncertainties  of  a  voyage  through  the 
forest.  You  may  go  as  a  wader,  stepping  into  the 
stream  and  going  down  with  it,  through  rapids  and 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

shallows  and  deeper  pools,  until  you  come  to  the 
end  of  your  courage  and  the  daylight.  Of  these 
three  ways  I  know  not  which  is  best.  But  in  all  of 
them  the  essential  thing  is  that  you  must  be  will- 
ing and  glad  to  be  led;  you  must  take  the  little 
river  for  your  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend. 

And  what  a  good  guidance  it  gives  you.  How 
cheerfully  it  lures  you  on  into  the  secrets  of  field 
and  wood,  and  brings  you  acquainted  with  the 
birds  and  the  flowers.  The  stream  can  show  you, 
better  than  any  other  teacher,  how  nature  works 
her  enchantments  with  colour  and  music. 

Go  out  to  the  Beaver-kill 

"  In  the  tassel-time  of  spring/' 

and  follow  its  brimming  waters  through  the  bud- 
ding forests,  to  that  corner  which  we  call  the 
Painter's  Camp.  See  how  the  banks  are  all  enam- 
elled with  the  pale  hepatica,  the  painted  trillium, 
and  the  delicate  pink-veined  spring  beauty.  A  little 
later  in  the  year,  when  the  ferns  are  uncurling 
their  long  fronds,  the  troops  of  blue  and  white 
violets  will  come  dancing  down  to  the  edge  of  the 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

stream,  and  creep  venturously  out  to  the  very  end* 
of  that  long,  moss-covered  log  in  the  water.  Be- 
fore these  have  vanished,  the  yellow  crow-foot  and 
the  cinquefoil  will  appear,  followed  by  the  star- 
grass  and  the  loose-strife  and  the  golden  St. 
John's-wort.  Then  the  unseen  painter  begins  to 
mix  the  royal  colour  on  his  palette,  and  the  red  of 
the  bee-balm  catches  your  eye.  If  you  are  lucky, 
you  may  find,  in  midsummer,  a  slender  fragrant 
spike  of  the  purple-fringed  orchis,  and  you  cannot 
help  finding  the  universal  self-heal.  Yellow  returns 
in  the  drooping  flowers  of  the  jewel-weed,  and  blue 
repeats  itself  in  the  trembling  hare-bells,  and  scar- 
let is  glorified  in  the  flaming  robe  of  the  cardinal- 
flower.  Later  still,  the  summer  closes  in  a  splendour 
of  bloom,  with  gentians  and  asters  and  golden- 
rod. 

You  never  get  so  close  to  the  birds  as  when  you 
are  wading  quietly  down  a  little  river,  casting  your 
fly  deftly  under  the  branches  for  the  wary  trout, 
but  ever  on  the  lookout  for  all  the  various  pleasant 
things  that  nature  has  to  bestow  upon  you.  Here 
you  shall  come  upon  the  cat-bird  at  her  morning 
£4 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

bath,  and  hear  her  sing,  in  a  clump  of  pussy- 
willows, that  low,  tender,  confidential  song  which 
she  keeps  for  the  hours  of  domestic  intimacy.  The 
spotted  sandpiper  will  run  along  the  stones  before 
you,  crying,  "wet-feet,  wet-feet!"  and  bowing  and 
teetering  in  the  friendliest  manner,  as  if  to  show 
you  the  way  to  the  best  pools.  In  the  thick  branches 
of  the  hemlocks  that  stretch  across  the  stream,  the 
tiny  warblers,  dressed  in  a  hundred  colours,  chirp 
and  twitter  confidingly  above  your  head;  and  the 
Maryland  yellow-throat,  flitting  through  the  bushes 
like  a  little  gleam  of  sunlight,  calls  "witchery, 
witchery,  witchery!"  That  plaintive,  forsaken,  per- 
sistent note,  never  ceasing,  even  in  the  noonday 
silence,  comes  from  the  wood-pewee,  drooping  upon 
the  bough  of  some  high  tree,  and  complaining, 
like  Mariana  in  the  moated  grange,  "weary, 
weary,  weary!" 

When  the  stream  runs  out  into  the  old  clearing, 
or  down  through  the  pasture,  you  find  other  and 
livelier  birds, — the  robins,  with  his  sharp,  saucy  call 
and  breathless,  merry  warble;  the  bluebird,  with 
his  notes  of  pure  gladness,  and  the  oriole,  with  his 
§8 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

wild,  flexible  whistle:  the  chewink,  bustling  about 
in  the  thicket,  talking  to  his  sweetheart  in  French, 
"cherie,  ch£rie!"  and  the  song-sparrow,  perched  on 
his  favourite  limb  of  a  young  maple,  close  beside 
the  water,  and  singing  happily,  through  sunshine 
and  through  rain.  This  is  the  true  bird  of  the 
brook,  after  all:  the  winged  spirit  of  cheerfulness 
and  contentment,  the  patron  saint  of  little  rivers, 
the  fisherman's  friend.  He  seems  to  enter  into  your 
sport  with  his  good  wishes,  and  for  an  hour  at  a 
time,  while  you  are  trying  every  fly  in  your  book, 
from  a  black  gnat  to  a  white  miller,  to  entice  the 
crafty  old  trout  at  the  foot  of  the  meadow-pool, 
the  song-sparrow,  close  above  you,  will  be  chant- 
ing patience  and  encouragement.  And  when  at  last 
success  crowns  your  endeavour,  and  the  parti- 
coloured prize  is  glittering  in  your  net,  the  bird 
on  the  bough  breaks  out  in  an  ecstasy  of  congratu- 
lation: "catch  *im,  catch  *imt  catch  *im;  oh,  what 
a  pretty  fellow!  sweet!" 

There  are  other  birds  that  seem  to  have  a  very 
different  temper.  The  blue- jay  sits  high  up  in  the 
withered-pine  tree,  bobbing  up  and  down,  and  call- 

M 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

ing  to  his  mate  in  a  tone  of  affected  sweetness, 
"salute-her,  salute-Tier"  but  when  you  come  in 
sight  he  flies  away  with  a  harsh  cry  of  "thief, 
thief,  thief!"  The  kingfisher,  ruffling  his  crest  in 
solitary  pride  on  the  end  of  a  dead  branch,  darts 
down  the  stream  at  your  approach,  winding  up 
his  reel  angrily  as  if  he  despised  you  for  interrupt- 
ing his  fishing.  And  the  cat-bird,  that  sang  so 
charmingly  while  she  thought  herself  unobserved, 
now  tries  to  scare  you  away  by  screaming  "snake, 


As  evening  draws  near,  and  the  light  beneath 
the  trees  grows  yellower,  and  the  air  is  full  of 
filmy  insects  out  for  their  last  dance,  the  voice  of 
the  little  river  becomes  louder  and  more  distinct. 
The  true  poets  have  often  noticed  this  apparent 
increase  in  the  sound  of  flowing  waters  at  night- 
fall. Gray,  in  one  of  his  letters,  speaks  of  "hear- 
ing the  murmur  of  many  waters  not  audible  in  the 
daytime.*'  Wordsworth  repeats  the  same  thought 
almost  in  the  same  words  : 

"A  soft  and  lulling  sound  is  heard 
Of  streams  inaudible 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

And  Tennyson,  in  the  valley  of  Cauteretz,  tells  of 
the  river 

"  Deepening  his  voice  with  deepening  of  the  mgAt" 
It  is  in  this  mystical  hour  that  you  will  hear  the 
most  celestial  and  entrancing  of  all  bird-notes,  the 
songs  of  the  thrushes, — the  hermit,  and  the  wood- 
thrush,  and  the  veery.  Sometimes,  but  not  often, 
you  will  see  the  singers.  I  remember  once,  at  the 
close  of  a  beautiful  day's  fishing  on  the  Swiftwater, 
I  came  out,  just  after  sunset,  into  a  little  open  space 
in  an  elbow  of  the  stream.  It  was  still  early  spring, 
and  the  leaves  were  tiny.  On  the  top  of  a  small 
sumac,  not  thirty  feet  away  from  me,  sat  a  veery. 
I  could  see  the  pointed  spots  upon  his  breast,  the 
swelling  of  his  white  throat,  and  the  sparkle  of  his 
eyes,  as  he  poured  his  whole  heart  into  a  long 
liquid  chant,  the  clear  notes  rising  and  falling, 
echoing  and  interlacing  in  endless  curves  of  sound, 

a  Orb  within  orb,  intricate,  wonderful." 
Other  bird-songs  can  be  translated  into  words,  but 
not  this.  There  is  no  interpretation.  It  is  music,— 
as  Sidney  Lanier  defines  it, — • 

**  Love  in  search  oj  a  rvord." 
S8 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

But  it  is  not  only  to  the  real  life  of  birds  and 
flowers  that  the  little  rivers  introduce  you.  They 
lead  you  often  into  familiarity  with  human  nature 
in  undress,  rejoicing  in  the  liberty  of  old  clothes, 
or  of  none  at  all.  People  do  not  mince  along  the 
banks  of  streams  in  patent-leather  shoes  or  crepi- 
tating silks.  Corduroy  and  home-spun  and  flannel 
are  the  stuffs  that  suit  this  region;  and  the  fre- 
quenters of  these  paths  go  their  natural  gaits,  in 
calf-skin  or  rubber  boots,  or  bare-footed.  The  gir- 
dle of  conventionality  is  laid  aside,  and  the  skirts 
rise  with  the  spirits. 

A  stream  that  flows  through  a  country  of  up- 
land farms  will  show  you  many  a  pretty  bit  of 
genre  painting.  Here  is  the  laundry-pool  at  the 
foot  of  the  kitchen  garden,  and  the  tubs  are  set 
upon  a  few  planks  close  to  the  water,  and  the 
farmer's  daughters,  with  bare  arms  and  gowns 
tucked  up,  are  wringing  out  the  clothes.  Do  you 
remember  what  happened  to  Ralph  Peden  in  The 
Lilac  Suribonnet  when  he  came  on  a  scene  like  this? 
He  tumbled  at  once  into  love  with  Winsome  Char- 
tens, — and  far  over  his  head. 
29 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

And  what  a  pleasant  thing  it  is  to  see  a  litti€ 
country  lad  riding  one  of  the  plough-horses  to 
water,  thumping  his  naked  heels  against  the  ribs 
of  his  stolid  steed,  and  pulling  hard  on  the  halter 
as  if  it  were  the  bridle  of  Bucephalus !  Or  perhaps 
it  is  a  riotous  company  of  boys  that  have  come 
down  to  the  old  swimming-hole,  and  are  now  splash- 
ing and  gambolling  through  the  water  like  a  drove 
of  white  seals  very  much  sun-burned.  You  had 
hoped  to  catch  a  goodly  trout  in  that  hole,  but 
what  of  that?  The  sight  of  a  harmless  hour  of 
mirth  is  better  than  a  fish,  any  day. 

Possibly  you  will  overtake  another  fisherman  on 
the  stream.  It  may  be  one  of  those  fabulous  coun- 
trymen, with  long  cedar  poles  and  bed-cord  lines, 
who  are  commonly  reported  to  catch  such  enormous 
strings  of  fish,  but  who  rarely,  so  far  as  my  ob- 
servation goes,  do  anything  more  than  fill  their 
pockets  with  fingerlings.  The  trained  angler,  who 
uses  the  finest  tackle,  and  drops  his  fly  on  the  water 
as  accurately  as  Henry  James  places  a  word  in  a 
story,  is  the  man  who  takes  the  most  and  the  largest 
fish  in  the  long  run.  Perhaps  the  fisherman  ahead 

30 


The  farmers'  daughters  with  bare  arms  and  gowns  tucked  up 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

of  you  is  such  an  one, — a  man  whom  you  have 
known  in  town  as  a  lawyer  or  a  doctor,  a  merchant 
or  a  preacher,  going  about  his  business  in  the 
hideous  respectability  of  a  high  silk  hat  and  a  long 
black  coat.  How  good  it  is  to  see  him  now  in  the 
freedom  of  a  flannel  shirt  and  a  broad-brimmed 
gray  felt  with  flies  stuck  around  the  band. 

In  Professor  John  Wilson's  Essays  Critical  and 
Imaginative,  there  is  a  brilliant  description  of  a 
bishop  fishing,  which  I  am  sure  is  drawn  from  the 
life:  "Thus  a  bishop,  sans  wig  and  petticoat,  in 
a  hairy  cap,  black  jacket,  corduroy  breeches  and 
leathern  leggins,  creel  on  back  and  rod  in  hand, 
sallying  from  his  palace,  impatient  to  reach  a 
famous  salmon-cast  ere  the  sun  leave  his  cloud, 
.  .  .  appears  not  only  a  pillar  of  his  church, 
but  of  his  kind,  and  in  such  a  costume  is  mani- 
festly on  the  high  road  to  Canterbury  and  the 
Kingdom-Come."  I  have  had  the  good  luck  to  see 
quite  a  number  of  bishops,  parochial  and  diocesan, 
in  that  style,  and  the  vision  has  always  dissolved 
my  doubts  in  regard  to  the  validity  of  their  claim 
to  the  true  apostolic  succession. 

81 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

Men's  "little  ways"  are  usually  more  interesting, 
and  often  more  instructive  than  their  grand  man- 
ners. When  they  are  off  guard,  they  frequently 
show  to  better  advantage  than  when  they  are  on 
parade.  I  get  more  pleasure  out  of  Boswell's 
Johnson  than  I  do  out  of  Rasselas  or  The  Ram- 
bler. The  Little  Flowers  of  St.  Francis  appear  to 
me  far  more  precious  than  the  most  learned  Ger- 
man and  French  analyses  of  his  character.  There 
is  a  passage  in  Jonathan  Edwards'  Personal  Nar- 
rative, about  a  certain  walk  that  he  took  in  the 
fields  near  his  father's  house,  and  the  blossoming 
of  the  flowers  in  the  spring,  which  I  would  not 
exchange  for  the  whole  of  his  dissertation  On  the 
Freedom  of  the  Will.  And  the  very  best  thing  of 
Charles  Darwin's  that  I  know  is  a  bit  from  a  let- 
ter to  his  wife:  "At  last  I  fell  asleep,"  says  he, 
"on  the  grass,  and  awoke  with  a  chorus  of  birds 
singing  around  me,  and  squirrels  running  up  the 
tree,  and  some  woodpeckers  laughing;  and  it  was 
as  pleasant  and  rural  a  scene  as  ever  I  saw ;  and  I 
did  not  care  one  penny  how  any  of  the  birds  or 
beasts  had  been  formed." 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

Little  rivers  have  small  responsibilities.  They 
are  not  expected  to  bear  huge  navies  on  their 
breast  or  supply  a  hundred-thousand  horse-power 
to  the  factories  of  a  monstrous  town.  Neither  do 
you  come  to  them  hoping  to  draw  out  Leviathan 
with  a  hook.  It  is  enough  if  they  run  a  harmless, 
amiable  course,  and  keep  the  groves  and  fields 
green  and  fresh  along  their  banks,  and  offer  a 
happy  alternation  of  nimble  rapids  and  quiet 
pools, 

"  With  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling." 

When  you  set  out  to  explore  one  of  these  minor 
streams  in  your  canoe,  you  have  no  intention  of 
epoch-making  discoveries,  or  thrilling  and  world- 
famous  adventures.  You  float  placidly  down  the 
long  stillwaters,  and  make  your  way  patiently 
through  the  tangle  of  fallen  trees  that  block  the 
stream,  and  run  the  smaller  falls,  and  carry  your 
boat  around  the  larger  ones,  with  no  loftier  ambi- 
tion than  to  reach  a  good  camp-ground  before 
dark  and  to  pass  the  intervening  hours  pleasantly, 

M 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

"without  offence  to  God  or  man."  It  is  an  agree- 
able and  advantageous  frame  of  mind  for  one  who 
has  done  his  fair  share  of  work  in  the  world,  and 
is  not  inclined  to  grumble  at  his  wages.  There  are 
few  moods  in  which  we  are  more,  susceptible  of 
gentle  instruction;  and  I  suspect  there  are  many 
tempers  and  attitudes,  often  called  virtuous,  hi 
which  the  human  spirit  appears  to  less  advantage 
in  the  sight  of  Heaven. 

It  is  not  required  of  every  man  and  womat  to 
be,  or  to  do,  something  great ;  most  of  us  must  con- 
tent ourselves  with  taking  small  parts  in  the  chorus. 
Shall  we  have  no  little  lyrics  because  Homer  and 
Dante  have  written  epics?  And  because  we  have 
heard  the  great  organ  at  Freiburg,  shall  the  sound 
of  Kathi's  zither  in  the  alpine  hut  please  us  no  more  ? 
Even  those  who  have  greatness  thrust  upon  them 
will  do  well  to  lay  the  burden  down  now  and  then, 
and  congratulate  themselves  that  they  are  not  alto- 
gether answerable  for  the  conduct  of  the  universe, 
or  at  least  not  all  the  time.  "I  reckon,"  said  a  cow- 
boy to  me  one  day,  as  we  were  riding  through  the 
Bad  Lands  of  Dakota,  "there  's  some  one  biggei 

84 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

than  me,  running  this  outfit.  He  can  'tend  to  it 
well  enough,  while  I  smoke  mj  pipe  after  the 
round-up." 

There  is  such  a  thing  as  taking  ourselves  and  the 
world  too  seriously,  or  at  any  rate  too  anxiously. 
Half  of  the  secular  unrest  and  dismal,  profane  sad- 
ness of  modern  society  comes  from  the  vain  idea 
that  every  man  is  bound  to  be  a  critic  of  life,  and 
to  let  no  day  pass  without  finding  some  fault  with 
the  general  order  of  things,  or  projecting  some 
plan  for  its  improvement.  And  the  other  half 
comes  from  the  greedy  notion  that  a  man's  life 
does  consist,  after  all,  in  the  abundance  of  the 
things  that  he  possesses,  and  that  it  is  somehow 
or  other  more  respectable  and  pious  to  be  always 
at  work  making  a  larger  living,  than  it  is  to  lie 
on  your  back  in  the  green  pastures  and  beside  the 
still  waters,  and  thank  God  that  you  are  alive. 

Come,  then,  my  gentle  reader,  (for  by  this  time 
you  have  discovered  that  this  chapter  is  only  a 
preface  in  disguise, — a  declaration  of  principles 
or  the  want  of  them,  an  apology  or  a  defence,  as 
you  choose  to  take  it,)  and  if  we  are  agreed,  let 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

us  walk  together ;  but  if  not,  let  us  part  here  with- 
out ill-will. 

You  shall  not  be  deceived  in  this  book.  It  is 
nothing  but  a  handful  of  rustic  variations  on  the 
old  tune  of  "Rest  and  be  thankful,"  a  record  of 
unconventional  travel,  a  pilgrim's  scrip  with  a  few 
bits  of  blue-sky  philosophy  in  it.  There  is,  so  far 
as  I  know,  very  little  useful  information  and  abso- 
lutely no  criticism  of  the  universe  to  be  found  in 
this  volume.  So  if  you  are  what  Izaak  Walton  calls 
"a  severe,  sour-complexioned  man,"  you  would  bet- 
ter carry  it  back  to  the  bookseller,  and  get  your 
money  again,  if  he  will  give  it  to  you,  and  go  your 
way  rejoicing  after  your  own  melancholy  fashion. 

But  if  you  care  for  plain  pleasures,  and  infor- 
mal company,  and  friendly  observations  on  men 
and  things,  (and  a  few  true  fish-stories,)  then  per- 
haps you  may  find  something  here  not  unworthy 
your  perusal.  And  so  I  wish  that  your  winter  fire 
may  burn  clear  and  bright  while  you  read  these 
pages ;  and  that  the  summer  days  may  be  fair,  and 
the  fish  may  rise  merrily  to  your  fly,  whenever  you 
follow  one  of  these  little  rivers. 

1895. 

86 


A    LEAF    OF    SPEARMINT 

RECOLLECTIONS    OP    A    BOY   AND    A    ROD 


*It  puzzles  me  now,  that  I  remember  all  these  young  impressions  go,  because 
I  took  10  heed  of  them  at  the  time  whatever ;  and  yet  they  come  upon  me 
bright,  when  nothing  else  is  evident  in  the  gray  fog  of  experience"— -B.  D. 
BLAOKMOBX:  Lorna  Doone. 


A    LEAF    OF    SPEARMINT 


all  the  faculties  of  the  human  mind,  memory 
is  the  one  that  is  most  easily  "led  by  the  nose." 
There  is  a  secret  power  in  the  sense  of  smell  which 
draws  the  mind  backward  into  the  pleasant  land 
of  old  times. 

If  you  could  paint  a  picture  of  Memory,  in  the 
symbolical  manner  of  Quarles's  Emblems,  it  should 
represent  a  man  travelling  the  highway  with  a 
dusty  pack  upon  his  shoulders,  and  stooping  to 
draw  in  a  long,  sweet  breath  from  the  small,  deep- 
red,  golden-hearted  flowers  of  an  old-fashioned 
rose-tree  straggling  through  the  fence  of  a  neg- 
lected garden.  Or  perhaps,  for  a  choice  of  emblems, 
you  would  better  take  a  yet  more  homely  and 
familiar  scent:  the  cool  fragrance  of  lilacs  drift- 
ing through  the  June  morning  from  the  old  bush 
that  stands  between  the  kitchen  door  and  the  well  ; 
the  warm  layer  of  pungent,  aromatic  air  that  floats 
39 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

over  the  tansy-bed  in  a  still  July  noon ;  the  drowsy 
dew  of  odour  that  falls  from  the  big  balm-of- 
Gilead  tree  by  the  roadside  as  you  are  driving 
homeward  through  the  twilight  of  August;  or, 
best  of  all,  the  clean,  spicy,  unexpected,  unmis- 
takable smell  of  a  bed  of  spearmint — that  is  the 
bed  whereon  Memory  loves  to  lie  and  dream! 

Why  not  choose  mint  as  the  symbol  of  remem- 
brance? It  is  the  true  spice-tree  of  our  Northern 
clime,  the  myrrh  and  frankincense  of  the  land  of 
lingering  snow.  When  its  perfume  rises,  the  shrines 
of  the  past  are  unveiled,  and  the  magical  rites  of 
reminiscence  begin. 


You  are  fishing  down  the  Swif twater  in  the  early 
Spring.  In  a  shallow  pool,  which  the  drought  of 
summer  will  soon  change  into  dry  land,  you  see 
the  pale-green  shoots  of  a  little  plant  thrusting 
themselves  up  between  the  pebbles,  and  just  begin- 
ning to  overtop  the  falling  water.  You  pluck  a 
leaf  of  it  as  you  turn  out  of  the  stream  to  find  a 

40 


The  bed  whereon  memory  loves  to  lie  and  dream. 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

comfortable  place  for  lunch,  and,  rolling  it  be- 
tween your  fingers  to  see  whether  it  smells  like  a 
good  salad  for  your  bread  and  cheese,  you  dis- 
cover suddenly  that  it  is  new  mint.  For  the  rest 
of  that  day  you  are  bewitched ;  you  follow  a  stream 
that  runs  through  the  country  of  Auld  Lang  Syne, 
and  fill  your  creel  with  the  recollections  of  a  boy 
and  a  rod. 

And  yet,  strangely  enough,  you  cannot  recall 
the  boy  himself  at  all  distinctly.  There  is  only  the 
faintest  image  of  him  on  the  endless  roll  of  films 
that  has  been  wound  through  your  mental  camera : 
and  in  the  very  spots  where  his  small  figure  should 
appear,  it  seems  as  if  the  pictures  were  always 
light-struck.  Just  a  blur,  and  the  dim  outline  of 
a  new  cap,  or  a  well-beloved  jacket  with  extra 
pockets,  or  a  much-hated  pair  of  copper-toed  shoes 
— that  i?  all  you  can  see. 

But  the  people  that  the  boy  saw,  the  compan- 
ions who  helped  or  hindered  him  in  his  adventures, 
the  sublime  and  marvellous  scenes  among  the  Cats- 
kills  and  the  Adirondacks  and  the  Green  Moun- 
tains, in  the  midst  of  which  he  lived  and  moved 

41 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

and  had  his  summer  holidays — all  these  stand  out 
sharp  and  clear,  as  the  "Bab  Ballads"  say, 

"Photographically  lined 
On  the  tablets  of  your  mind" 

And  most  vivid  do  these  scenes  and  people  become 
when  the  vague  and  irrecoverable  boy  who  walks 
among  them  carries  a  rod  over  his  shoulder,  and 
you  detect  the  soft  bulginess  of  wet  fish  about  his 
clothing,  and  perhaps  the  tail  of  a  big  one  emerg- 
ing from  his  pocket.  Then  it  seems  almost  as  if 
these  were  things  that  had  really  happened,  and 
of  which  you  yourself  were  a  great  part. 

The  rod  was  a  reward,  yet  not  exactly  of  merit. 
It  was  an  instrument  of  education  in  the  hand  of 
a  father  less  indiscriminate  than  Solomon,  who 
chose  to  interpret  the  text  in  a  new  way,  and  pre- 
ferred to  educate  his  child  by  encouraging  him  in 
pursuits  which  were  harmless  and  wholesome,  rather 
than  by  chastising  him  for  practices  which  would 
likely  enough  never  have  been  thought  of,  if  they 
had  not  been  forbidden.  The  boy  enjoyed  this  kind 
of  father  at  the  time,  and  later  he  came  to  under- 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

stand,  with  a  grateful  heart,  that  there  is  no  richeJ 
inheritance  in  all  the  treasury  of  unearned  bless- 
ings. For,  after  all,  the  love,  the  patience,  the 
kindly  wisdom  of  a  grown  man  who  can  enter  into 
the  perplexities  and  turbulent  impulses  of  a  boy's 
heart,  and  give  him  cheerful  companionship,  and 
lead  him  on  by  free  and  joyful  ways  to  know  and 
choose  the  things  that  are  pure  and  lovely  and  of 
good  report,  make  as  fair  an  image  as  we  can  find 
of  that  loving,  patient  Wisdom  which  must  be 
above  us  all  if  any  good  is  to  come  out  of  our 
childish  race. 

Now  this  was  the  way  in  which  the  boy  came 
into  possession  of  his  undreaded  rod.  He  was  by 
nature  and  heredity  one  of  those  predestined 
anglers  whom  Izaak  Walton  tersely  describes  as 
"born  so."  His  earliest  passion  was  fishing.  His 
favourite  passage  in  Holy  Writ  was  that  place 
where  Simon  Peter  throws  a  line  into  the  sea  and 
pulls  out  a  great  fish  at  the  first  cast. 

But  hitherto  his  passion  had  been  indulged  un- 
der difficulties — with  improvised  apparatus  of  cut 
poles,  and  flabby  pieces  of  string,  and  bent  pins, 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

which  always  failed  to  hold  the  biggest  fish;  or 
perhaps  with  borrowed  tackle,  dangling  a  fat  worm 
in  vain  before  the  noses  of  the  staring,  supercilious 
sunfish  that  poised  themselves  in  the  clear  water 
around  the  Lake  House  dock  at  Lake  George;  or, 
at  best,  on  picnic  parties  across  the  lake,  marred 
by  the  humiliating  presence  of  nurses,  and  dis- 
turbed by  the  obstinate  refusal  of  old  Horace,  the 
boatman,  to  believe  that  the  boy  could  bait  his 
own  hook,  but  sometimes  crowned  with  the  delight 
of  bringing  home  a  whole  basketful  of  yellow 
perch  and  goggle-eyes.  Of  nobler  sport  with  game 
fish,  like  the  vaulting  salmon  and  the  merry,  pug- 
nacious trout,  as  yet  the  boy  had  only  dreamed. 
But  he  had  heard  that  there  were  such  fish  in  the 
streams  that  flowed  down  from  the  mountains 
around  Lake  George,  and  he  was  at  the  happy 
age  when  he  could  believe  anything — if  it  was 
sufficiently  interesting. 

There  was  one  little  river,  and  only  one,  within 
his  knowledge  and  the  reach  of  his  short  legs.  It 
was  a  tiny,  lively  rivulet  that  came  out  of  the 
woods  about  half  a  mile  away  from  the  hotel,  and 

44 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

ran  down  eater-cornered  through  a  sloping  mead- 
ow, crossing  the  road  under  a  flat  bridge  of 
boards,  just  beyond  the  root-beer  shop  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  village.  It  seemed  large  enough  to  the 
boy,  and  he  had  long  had  his  eye  upon  it  as  a 
fitting  theatre  for  the  beginning  of  a  real  angler's 
life.  Those  rapids,  those  falls,  those  deep,  whirling 
pools  with  beautiful  foam  on  them  like  soft,  white 
custard,  were  they  not  such  places  as  the  trout 
loved  to  hide  in? 

You  can  see  the  long  hotel  piazza,  with  the  gos- 
sipy groups  of  wooden  chairs  standing  vacant  in 
the  early  afternoon;  for  the  grown-up  people  are 
dallying  with  the  ultimate  nuts  and  raisins  of  their 
mid-day  dinner.  A  villainous  clatter  of  innumer- 
able little  vegetable-dishes  comes  from  the  open 
windows  of  the  pantry  as  the  boy  steals  past  the 
kitchen  end  of  the  house,  with  Horace's  lightest 
bamboo  pole  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  little  brother 
in  skirts  and  short  white  stockings  tagging  along 
behind  him. 

When  they  come  to  the  five-rail  fence  where  the 
brook  runs  out  of  the  field,  the  question  is,  Over 

45 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

or  under?  The  lowlier  method  seems  safer  for  the 
little  brother,  a3  well  as  less  conspicuous  for  per- 
sons who  desire  'o  avoid  publicity  until  their  enter- 
prise has  achieved  success.  So  they  crawl  beneath 
a  bend  in  the  lowest  rail, — only  tearing  one  tiny 
three-cornered  hole  in  a  jacket,  and  making  some 
juicy  green  stains  on  the  white  stockings, — and 
emerge  with  suppressed  excitement  in  the  field  of 
the  cloth  of  buttercups  and  daisies. 

What  an  afternoon — how  endless  and  yet  how 
swift!  What  perilous  efforts  to  leap  across  the 
foaming  stream  at  its  narrowest  points;  what  es- 
capes from  quagmires  and  possible  quicksands; 
what  stealthy  creeping  through  the  grass  to  the 
edge  of  a  likely  pool,  and  cautious  dropping  of 
the  line  into  an  unseen  depth,  and  patient  waiting 
for  a  bite,  until  the  restless  little  brother,  prowl- 
ing about  below,  discovers  that  the  hook  is  not  in 
the  water  at  all,  but  lying  on  top  of  a  dry  stone, 
— thereby  proving  that  patience  is  not  the  only 
virtue — or,  at  least,  that  it  does  a  better  business 
when  it  has  a  small  vice  of  impatience  in  partner- 
ship with  it! 

46 


A   LEAF    OF    SPEARMINT 

How  tired  the  adventurers  grow  as  the  day  wears 
away;  and  as  yet  they  have  taken  nothing!  But 
their  strength  and  courage  return  as  if  by  magic 
when  there  comes '  a  surprising  twitch  at  the  line 
in  a  shallow,  unpromising  rapid,  and  with  a  jerk 
of  the  pole  a  small,  wiggling  fish  is  whirled 
through  the  air  and  landed  thirty  feet  back  in  the 
meadow. 

"For  pity's  sake,  don't  lose  him!  There  he  is 
among  the  roots  of  the  blue  flag." 

"I've  got  him !  How  cold  he  is — how  slippery — 
how  pretty !  Just  like  a  piece  of  rainbow !" 

"Do  you  see  the  red  spots?  Did  you  notice  how 
gamy  he  was,  little  brother;  how  he  played?  It 
is  a  trout,  for  sure;  a  real  trout,  almost  as  long 
as  your  hand." 

So  the  two  lads  tramp  along  up  the  stream, 
chattering  as  if  there  were  no  rubric  of  silence  in 
the  angler's  code.  Presently  another  simple-minded 
troutling  falls  a  victim  to  their  unpremeditated 
art ;  and  they  begin  already,  being  human,  to  wish 
lor  something  larger.  In  the  very  last  pool  that 
tney  dare  attempt — a  dark  hole  under  a  steep 

47 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

bank,  where  the  brook  issues  from  the  woods — the 
boy  drags  out  the  hoped-for  prize,  a  splendid 
trout,  longer  than  a  new  lead-pencil.  But  he  feels 
sure  that  there  must  be  another,  even  larger,  in 
the  same  place.  He  swings  his  line  out  carefully 
over  the  water,  and  just  as  he  is  about  to  drop  it 
in,  the  little  brother,  perched  on  the  sloping  brink, 
slips  on  the  smooth  pine-needles,  and  goes  slidder- 
ing  down  into  the  pool  up  to  his  waist.  How  he 
weeps  with  dismay,  and  how  funnily  his  dress 
sticks  to  him  as  he  crawls  out!  But  his  grief  is 
soon  assuaged  by  the  privilege  of  carrying  the 
trout  strung  on  an  alder  twig;  and  it  is  a  happy, 
muddy,  proud  pair  of  urchins  that  climb  over  the 
fence  out  of  the  field  of  triumph  at  the  close  of 
the  day. 

What  does  the  father  say,  as  he  meets  them  in 
the  road?  Is  he  frowning  or  smiling  under  that 
big  brown  beard?  You  cannot  be  quite  sure.  But 
one  thing  is  clear:  he  is  as  much  elated  over  the 
capture  of  the  real  trout  as  any  one.  He  is  ready 
to  deal  mildly  with  a  little  irregularity  for  the 
sake  of  encouraging  pluck  and  perseverance.  Be- 

48 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

fore  the  three  comrades  have  reached  the  hotel,  the 
boy  has  promised  faithfully  never  to  take  his  lit- 
tle brother  off  again  without  asking  leave ;  and  the 
father  has  promised  that  the  boy  shall  have  a  real 
jeinted  fishing-rod  of  his  own,  so  that  he  will  not 
need  to  borrow  old  Horace's  pole  any  more. 

At  breakfast  the  next  morning  the  family  are 
to  have  a  private  dish;  not  an  every-day  affair  of 
vulgar,  bony  fish  that  nurses  can  catch,  but  trout 
— three  of  them!  But  the  boy  looks  up  from  the 

table  and  sees  the  adored  of  his  soul,  Annie  V , 

sitting  at  the  other  end  of  the  room,  and  faring 
on  the  common  food  of  mortals.  Shall  she  eat  the 
ordinary  breakfast  while  he  feasts  on  dainties? 
Do  not  other  sportsmen  send  their  spoils  to  the 
ladies  whom  they  admire?  The  waiter  must  bring 
a  hot  plate,  and  take  this  largest  trout  to  Miss 
V (Miss  Annie,  not  her  sister — make  no  mis- 
take about  it). 

The  face  of  Augustus  is  as  solemn  as  an  ebony 
idol  while  he  plays  his  part  of  Cupid's  messenger. 
The  fair  Annie  affects  surprise;  she  accepts  the 
offering  rather  indifferently;  her  curls  drop  down 

49 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

over  her  cheeks  to  cover  some  small  confusion.  But 
for  an  instant  the  corner  of  her  eye  catches  the 
boy's  sidelong  glance,  and  she  nods  perceptibly, 
whereupon  his  mother  very  inconsiderately  calls 
attention  to  the  fact  that  yesterday's  escapade  has 
sun-burned  his  face  dreadfully. 

Beautiful   Annie  V ,   who,  among  all  the 

unripened  nymphs  that  played  at  hide-and-seek 
among  the  maples  on  the  hotel  lawn,  or  waded  with 
white  feet  along  the  yellow  beach  beyond  the  point 
of  pines,  flying  with  merry  shrieks  into  the  woods 
when  a  boat-load  of  boys  appeared  suddenly 
around  the  corner,  or  danced  the  lancers  in  the  big, 
bare  parlours  before  the  grown-up  ball  began — 
who  in  all  that  joyous,  innocent  bevy  could  be 
compared  with  you  for  charm  or  daring?  How 
your  dark  eyes  sparkled,  and  how  the  long  brown 
ringlets  tossed  around  your  small  head,  when  you 
stood  up  that  evening,  slim  and  straight,  and  taller 
by  half  a  head  than  your  companions,  in  the  lamp- 
lit  room  where  the  children  were  playing  forfeits, 
and  said,  "There  is  not  one  boy  here  that  dares  to 
kiss  me!"  Then  you  ran  out  on  the  dark  porch, 

50 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEAR MINT 

where  the  honeysuckle  vines  grew  up  the  tall,  inane 
Corinthian  pillars. 

Did  you  blame  the  boy  for  following?  And  were 
you  very  angry,  indeed,  about  what  happened, — 
until  you  broke  out  laughing  at  his  cravat,  which 
had  slipped  around  behind  his  ear?  That  was  the 
first  time  he  ever  noticed  how  much  sweeter  the 
honeysuckle  smells  at  night  than  in  the  day.  It 
was  his  entrance  examination  in  the  school  of  nat- 
ure— human  and  otherwise.  He  felt  that  there  was 
a  whole  continent  of  newly  discovered  poetry  with- 
in him,  and  worshipped  his  Columbus  disguised  in 
curls.  Your  boy  is  your  true  idealist,  after  all,  al- 
though (or  perhaps  because)  he  is  still  uncivilised. 


The  arrival  of  the  rod,  in  four  joints,  with  an 
extra  tip,  a  brass  reel,  and  the  other  luxuries  for 
which  a  true  angler  would  willingly  exchange  the 
necessaries  of  life,  marked  a  new  epoch  in  the  boy's 
career.  At  the  uplifting  of  that  wand,  as  if  it  had 
been  in  the  hand  of  another  Moses,  the  waters  of 

51 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

infancy  rolled  back,  and  the  way  was  opened  into 
the  promised  land,  whither  the  tyrant  nurses,  with 
all  their  proud  array  of  baby-chariots,  could  not 
follow.  The  way  was  open,  but  not  by  any  means 
dry.  One  of  the  first  events  in  the  dispensation  of 
the  rod  was  the  purchase  of  a  pair  of  high  rubber 
boots.  Inserted  in  this  armour  of  modern  infantry, 
and  transfigured  with  delight,  the  boy  clumped 
through  all  the  little  rivers  within  a  circuit  of  ten 
miles  from  Caldwell,  and  began  to  learn  by  pa- 
rental example  the  yet  unmastered  art  of  complete 
angling. 

But  because  some  of  the  streams  were  deep  and 
strong,  and  his  legs  were  short  and  slender,  and 
his  ambition  was  even  taller  than  his  boots,  the 
father  would  sometimes  take  him  up  pickaback, 
and  wade  along  carefully  through  the  perilous 
places — which  are  often,  in  this  world,  the  very 
places  one  longs  to  fish  in.  So,  in  your  remembrance, 
you  can  see  the  little  rubber  boots  sticking  out 
under  the  father's  arms,  and  the  rod  projecting 
over  his  head,  and  the  bait  dangling  down  un- 
steadily into  the  deep  holes,  and  the  delighted  boy 

52 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

hooking  and  playing  and  basketing  his  trout  high 
in  the  air.  How  many  of  our  best  catches  in  life 
are  made  from  some  one  else's  shoulders! 

From  this  summer  the  whole  earth  became  to  the 
boy,  as  Tennyson  describes  the  lotus  country,  "a 
land  of  streams."  In  school-days  and  in  town  he 
acknowledged  the  sway  of  those  mysterious  and 
irresistible  forces  which  produce  tops  at  one  sea- 
son, and  marbles  at  another,  and  kites  at  another, 
and  bind  all  boyish  hearts  to  play  mumble-the-peg 
at  the  due  time  more  certainly  than  the  stars  are 
bound  to  their  orbits.  But  when  vacation  came, 
with  its  annual  exodus  from  the  city,  there  was 
only  one  sign  in  the  zodiac,  and  that  was  Pisces. 

No  country  seemed  to  him  tolerable  without 
trout,  and  no  landscape  beautiful  unless  enlivened 
by  a  young  river.  Among  what  delectable  moun- 
tains did  those  watery  guides  lead  his  vagrant 
steps,  and  with  what  curious,  mixed,  and  sometimes 
profitable  company  did  they  make  him  familiar! 

There  was  one  exquisite  stream  among  the  Alle- 
ghanies,  called  Lycoming  Creek,  beside  which  the 
family  spent  a  summer  in  a  decadent  inn,  kept  by 
53 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

a  tremulous  landlord  who  was  always  sitting  on  the 
steps  of  the  porch,  and  whose  most  memorable  re- 
mark was  that  he  had  "a  misery  in  his  stomach." 
This  form  of  speech  amused  the  boy,  but  he  did 
not  in  the  least  comprehend  it.  It  was  the  descrip- 
tion of  an  unimaginable  experience  in  a  region 
which  was  as  yet  known  to  him  only  as  the  seat  of 
pleasure.  He  did  not  understand  how  any  one  could 
be  miserable  when  he  could  catch  trout  from  his 
own  dooryard. 

The  big  creek,  with  its  sharp  turns  from  side  to 
side  of  the  valley,  its  hemlock-shaded  falls  in  the 
gorge,  and  its  long,  still  reaches  in  the  "sugar- 
bottom,"  where  the  maple-trees  grew  as  if  in  an 
orchard,  and  the  superfluity  of  grasshoppers  made 
the  trout  fat  and  dainty,  was  too  wide  to  fit  the 
boy.  But  nature  keeps  all  sizes  in  her  stock,  and 
a  smaller  stream,  called  Rocky  Run,  came  tumbling 
down  opposite  the  inn,  as  if  made  to  order  for 
juvenile  use. 

How  well  you  can  follow  it,  through  the  old 
pasture  overgrown  with  alders,  and  up  past  the 
broken-down  mill-dam  and  the  crumbling  sluice, 

54 


A  LEAF    OF  SPEARMINT 

into  the  mountain-cleft  from  which  it  leaps  laugh- 
ing! The  water,  except  just  after  a  rain-storm,  is 
as  transparent  as  glass — old-fashioned  window- 
glass,  I  mean,  in  small  panes,  with  just  a  tinge  of 
green  in  it,  like  the  air  in  a  grove  of  young  birches. 
Twelve  feet  down  in  the  narrow  chasm  below  the 
falls,  where  the  water  is  full  of  tiny  bubbles,  like 
Apollinaris,  you  can  see  the  trout  poised,  with 
their  heads  up-stream,  motionless,  but  quivering  a 
little,  as  if  they  were  strung  on  wires. 

The  bed  of  the  stream  has  been  scooped  out  of 
the  solid  rock.  Here  and  there  banks  of  sand  have 
been  deposited,  and  accumulations  of  loose  stone 
disguise  the  real  nature  of  the  channel.  Great 
boulders  have  been  rolled  down  the  alleyway  and 
left  where  they  chanced  to  stick;  the  stream  must 
get  around  them  or  under  them  as  best  it  can.  But 
there  are  other  places  where  everything  has  been 
swept  clean;  nothing  remains  but  the  primitive 
strata,  and  the  flowing  water  merrily  tickles  the 
bare  ribs  of  mother  earth.  Whirling  stones,  in  the 
spring  floods,  have  cut  well-holes  in  the  rock,  as 
round  and  even  as  if  they  had  been  made  with  a 

55 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

drill,  and  sometimes  you  can  see  the  very  stone  that 
sunk  the  well  lying  at  the  bottom.  There  are  long, 
straight,  sloping  troughs  through  which  the  water 
runs  like  a  mill-race.  There  are  huge  basins  into 
which  the  water  rumbles  over  a  ledge,  as  if  some 
one  were  pouring  it  very  steadily  out  of  a  pitcher, 
and  from  which  it  glides  away  without  a  ripple, 
flowing  over  a  smooth  pavement  of  rock  which 
shelves  down  from  the  shallow  foot  to  the  deep 
head  of  the  pool. 

The  boy  wonders  how  far  he  dare  wade  out 
along  that  slippery  floor.  The  water  is  within  an 
inch  of  his  boot-tops  now.  But  the  slope  seems  very 
even,  and  just  beyond  his  reach  a  good  fish  is  ris- 
ing. Only  one  step  more,  and  then,  like  the  wicked 
man  in  the  psalm,  his  feet  begin  to  slide.  Slowly, 
and  standing  bolt  upright,  with  the  rod  held  high 
above  his  head,  as  if  it  must  on  no  account  get 
wet,  he  glides  forward  up  to  his  neck  in  the  ice- 
cold  bath,  gasping  with  amazement.  There  have 
been  other  and  more  serious  situations  in  life  into 
which,  unless  I  am  mistaken,  you  have  made  an 
equally  unwilling  and  embarrassed  entrance,  and  in 

56 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

which  you  have  been  surprised  to  find  yourself  not 
only  up  to  your  neck,  but  over, — and  you  are  a 
lucky  man  if  you  have  had  the  presence  of  mind 
to  stand  still  for  a  moment,  before  wading"  out,  and 
make  sure  at  least  of  the  fish  that  tempted  you 
into  your  predicament. 

But  Rocky  Run,  they  say,  exists  no  longer.  It 
has  been  blasted  by  miners  out  of  all  resemblance 
to  itself,  and  bewitched  into  a  dingy  water-power 
to  turn  wheels  for  the  ugly  giant,  Trade.  It  is  only 
in  the  valley  of  remembrance  that  its  current  still 
flows  like  liquid  air;  and  only  in  that  country  that 
you  can  still  see  the  famous  men  who  came  and 
went  along  the  banks  of  the  Ly coming  when  the 
boy  was  there. 

There  was  Collins,  who  was  a  wondrous  adept 
at  "daping,  dapping,  or  dibbling"  with  a  grass- 
hopper, and  who  once  brought  in  a  string  of  trout 
which  he  laid  out  head  to  tail  on  the  grass  before 
the  house  in  a  line  of  beauty  forty-seven  feet  long. 
A  mighty  bass  voice  had  this  Collins  also,  and  could 
sing,  "Larboard  Watch,  Ahoy!"  "Down  in  a 
Coal-Mine,"  and  other  profound  ditties  in  a  way 

57 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

to  make  all  the  glasses  on  the  table  jingle;  but 
withal,  as  you  now  suspect,  rather  a  fishy  char- 
acter, and  undeserving  of  the  unqualified  respect 
which  the  boy  had  for  him.  And  there  was  Dr. 
Romsen,  lean,  satirical,  kindly,  a  skilful  though 
reluctant  physician,  who  regarded  it  as  a  personal 
injury  if  any  one  in  the  party  fell  sick  in  summer 
time;  and  a  passionately  unsuccessful  hunter,  who 
would  sit  all  night  in  the  crotch  of  a  tree  beside 
an  alleged  deer-lick,  and  come  home  perfectly  sat- 
isfied if  he  had  heard  a  hedgehog  grunt.  It  was 
he  who  called  attention  to  the  discrepancy  between 
the  boy's  appetite  and  his  size  by  saying  loudly 
at  a  picnic*  "I  would  n't  grudge  you  what  you  eat, 
tny  boy,  if  I  could  only  see  that  it  did  you  any 
good," — which  remark  was  not  forgiven  until  the 
doctor  redeemed  his  reputation  by  pronouncing  a 
serious  medical  opinion,  before  a  council  of  moth- 
ers, to  the  effect  that  it  did  not  really  hurt  a  boy 
to  get  his  feet  wet.  That  was  worthy  of  Galen 
in  his  most  inspired  moment.  And  there  was 
hearty,  genial  Paul  Merit,  whose  mere  company 
was  an  education  in  good  manners,  and  who  could 

58 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

cat  eight  hard-boiled  eggs  for  supper  without 
ruffling  his  equanimity;  and  the  tall,  thin,  grin- 
ning Major,  whom  an  angry  Irishwoman  once  de- 
scribed as  "like  a  comb,  all  back  and  teeth;"  and 
many  more  were  the  comrades  of  the  boy's  father, 
all  of  whom  he  admired,  (and  followed  when  they 
would  let  him,)  but  none  so  much  as  the  father 
himself,  because  he  was  the  wisest,  kindest,  and 
merriest  of  all  that  merry  crew,  now  dispersed  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth  and  beyond. 

Other  streams  played  a  part  in  the  education  of 
that  happy  boy:  the  Kaaterskill,  where  there  had 
been  nothing  but  the  ghosts  of  trout  for  the  last 
thirty  years,  but  where  the  absence  of  fish  was 
almost  forgotten  in  the  joy  of  a  first  introduction 
to  Dickens,  one  very  showery  day,  when  dear  old 
Ned  Mason  built  a  smoky  fire  in  a  cave  below 
Haines's  Falls,  and,  pulling  The  Old  Curiosity 
Shop  out  of  his  pocket,  read  aloud  about  Little 
Nell  until  the  tears  ran  down  the  cheeks  of  reader 
and  listener — the  smoke  was  so  thick,  you  know: 
and  the  Neversink,  which  flows  through  John  Bur- 
roughs's  country,  and  past  one  house  in  particular, 
59 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

perched  on  a  high  bluff,  where  a  very  dreadful 
old  woman  come  out  and  throws  stones  at  "city 
fellers  fishin'  through  her  land"  (as  if  any  one 
wanted  to  touch  her  land!  It  was  the  water  that 
ran  over  it,  you  see,  that  carried  the  fish  with  it, 
and  they  were  not  hers  at  all) :  and  the  stream  at 
Healing  Springs,  in  the  Virginia  mountains,  where 
the  medicinal  waters  flow  down  into  a  lovely  wild 
brook  without  injuring  the  health  of  the  trout  in 
the  least,  and  where  the  only  drawback  to  the 
angler's  happiness  is  the  abundance  of  rattlesnakes 
— but  a  boy  does  not  mind  such  things  as  that;  he 
feels  as  if  he  were  immortal.  Over  all  these  streams 
memory  skips  lightly,  and  strikes  a  trail  through 
the  woods  to  the  Adirondacks,  where  the  boy  made 
his  first  acquaintance  with  navigable  rivers, — that 
is  to  say,  rivers  which  are  traversed  by  canoes  and 
hunting-skiffs,  but  not  yet  defiled  by  steamboats, 
— and  slept,  or  rather  lay  awake,  for  the  first  time 
on  a  bed  of  balsam-boughs  in  a  tent. 


60 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

HE. 

The  promotion  from  all-day  picnics  to  a  two 
weeks'  camping-trip  is  like  going  from  school  to 
college.  By  this  time  a  natural  process  of  evolu- 
tion has  raised  the  first  rod  to  something  lighter 
and  more  flexible, — a  fly-rod,  so  to  speak,  but 
not  a  bigoted  one, — just  a  serviceable,  unpreju- 
diced article,  not  above  using  any  kind  of  bait  that 
may  be  necessary  to  catch  the  fish.  The  father  has 
received  the  new  title  of  "governor,"  indicating  not 
less,  but  more  authority,  and  has  called  in  new  in- 
structors to  carry  on  the  boy's  education:  real 
Adirondack  guides — old  Sam  Dunning  and  one- 
eyed  Enos,  the  last  and  laziest  of  the  Saranac 
Indians.  Better  men  will  be  discovered  for  later 
trips,  but  none  more  amusing,  and  none  whose 
woodcraft  seems  more  wonderful  than  that  of  this 
queerly  matched  team,  as  they  make  the  first  camp 
in  a  pelting  rain-storm  on  the  shore  of  Big  Clear 
Pond.  The  pitching  of  the  tents  is  a  lesson  in 
architecture,  the  building  of  the  camp-fire  a  vic- 
tory over  damp  nature,  and  the  supper  of  potatoes 

61 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

and  bacon  and  fried  trout  a  veritable  triumph  of 
culinary  art. 

At  midnight  the  rain  is  pattering  persistently 
on  the  canvas;  the  fronts  flaps  are  closed  and  tied 
together;  the  lingering  fire  shines  through  them, 
and  sends  vague  shadows  wavering  up  and  down: 
the  governor  is  rolled  up  in  his  blankets,  sound 
asleep.  It  is  a  very  long  night  for  the  boy. 

What  is  that  rustling  noise  outside  the  tent? 
Probably  some  small  creature,  a  squirrel  or  a  rab- 
bit, Rabbit  stew  would  be  good  for  breakfast.  But 
it  sounds  louder  now,  almost  loud  enough  to  be  a 
fox, — there  are  no  wolves  left  in  the  Adirondacks, 
or  at  least  only  a  very  few.  That  is  certainly  quite 
a  heavy  footstep  prowling  around  the  provision- 
box.  Could  it  be  a  panther, — they  step  very  softly 
for  their  size, — or  a  bear  perhaps?  Sam  Dunning 
told  about  catching  one  in  a  trap  just  below  here. 
(Ah,  my  boy,  you  will  soon  learn  that  there  is  no 
spot  in  all  the  forests  created  by  a  bountiful  Provi- 
dence so  poor  as  to  be  without  its  bear  story.) 
Where  was  the  rifle  put?  There  it  is,  at  the  foot 
of  the  tent-pole.  Wonder  if  it  is  loaded? 


A  LEAF    OF  SPEARMINT 

"  WaugMio!     Waugh-ho-o-O'O!" 

The  boy  springs  from  his  blankets  like  a  cat, 
and  peeps  out  between  the  tent-flaps.  There  sits 
Enos,  in  the  shelter  of  a  leaning  tree  by  the  fire, 
with  his  head  thrown  back  and  a  bottle  poised  at 
his  mouth.  His  lonely  eye  is  cocked  up  at  a  great 
horned  owl  on  the  branch  above  him.  Again  the 
sudden  voice  breaks  out : 

"Whoo!  whoo!  whoo  cooks  for  you  aU?" 

Enos  puts  the  bottle  down,  with  a  grunt,  and 
creeps  off  to  his  tent. 

"De  debbil  in  dat  owl,"  he  mutters.  "How  he 
know  I  cook  for  dis  camp  ?  How  he  know  'bout  dat 
bottle?  Ugh!" 

There  are  hundreds  of  pictures  that  flash  into 
light  as  the  boy  goes  on  his  course,  year  after 
year,  through  the  woods.  There  is  the  luxurious 
camp  on  Tapper's  Lake,  with  its  log  cabins  in  the 
spruce-grove,  and  its  regiment  of  hungry  men  who 
ate  almost  a  deer  a  day ;  and  there  is  the  little  bark 
shelter  on  the  side  of  Mount  Marcy,  where  the  gov- 
ernor and  the  boy,  with  baskets  full  of  trout  from 
the  Opalescent  River,  are  spending  the  night,  with 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

nothing  but  a  fire  to  keep  them  warm.  There  is 
the  North  Bay  at  Moosehead,  with  Joe  La  Croix 
(one  more  Frenchman  who  thinks  he  looks  like 
Napoleon)  posing  on  the  rocks  beside  his  canoe, 
and  only  reconciled  by  his  vanity  to  the  wasteful 
pastime  of  taking  photographs  while  the  big  fish 
are  rising  gloriously  out  at  the  end  of  the  point. 
There  is  the  small  spring-hole  beside  the  Saranac 
River,  where  Pliny  Robbins  and  the  boy  caught 
twenty-three  noble  trout,  weighing  from  one  to 
three  pounds  apiece,  in  the  middle  of  a  hot  August 
afternoon,  and  hid  themselves  in  the  bushes  when- 
ever they  heard  a  party  coming  down  the  river, 
because  they  did  not  care  to  attract  company;  and 
there  are  the  Middle  Falls,  where  the  governor 
stood  on  a  long  spruce  log,  taking  two-pound  fish 
with  the  fly,  and  stepping  out  at  every  cast  a  lit- 
tle nearer  to  the  end  of  the  log,  until  it  slowly 
tipped  with  him,  and  he  settled  down  into  the  river. 
Among  such  scenes  as  these  the  boy  pursued 
his  education,  learning  many  things  that  are  not 
taught  in  colleges;  learning  to  take  the  weather 
as  it  comes,  wet  or  dry,  and  fortune  as  it  ffllls, 

64 


A  LEAF    OF   SPEARMINT 

good  or  bad ;  learning  that  a  meal  which  is  scanty 
fare  for  one  becomes  a  banquet  for  two — provided 
the  other  is  the  right  person;  learning  that  there 
is  some  skill  in  everything,  even  in  digging  bait, 
and  that  what  is  called  luck  consists  chiefly  in  hav- 
ing your  tackle  in  good  order;  learning  that  a 
man  can  be  just  as  happy  in  a  log  shanty  as  in  a 
brownstone  mansion,  and  that  the  very  best  pleas- 
ures are  those  that  do  not  leave  a  bad  taste  in  the 
mouth.  And  in  all  this  the  governor  was  his  best 
teacher  and  his  closest  comrade. 

Dear  governor,  you  have  gone  out  of  the  wil- 
derness now,  and  your  steps  will  be  no  more  beside 
these  remembered  little  rivers — no  more,  forever 
and  forever.  You  will  not  come  in  sight  around 
any  bend  of  this  clear  Swiftwater  stream  where 
you  made  your  last  cast;  your  cheery  voice  will 
never  again  ring  out  through  the  deepening  twi- 
light where  you  are  lingering  for  your  disciple  to 
catch  up  with  you;  he  will  never  again  hear  you 
call:  "Hallo,  my  boy!  What  luck?  Time  to  go 
home!"  But  there  is  a  river  in  the  country  where 
you  have  gone,  is  there  not? — a  river  with  trees 

65 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

growing  all  along  it — evergreen  trees;  and  some- 
where by  those  shady  banks,  within  sound  of  clear 
running  waters,  I  think  you  will  be  dreaming  and 
waiting  for  your  boy,  if  he  follows  the  trail 

you  have  shown  him  even  to  the  end. 
1895. 


AMPERSAND 


*  It  it  not  the  wallcfag  merely,  it  is  keeping  yourself  in  tune  for  a  walk,  in 
the  spiritual  and  bodily  condition  in  which  you  can  find  entertainment  and 
exhilaration  in  so  simple  and  natural  a  pastime.  You  are  eligible  to  any 
good  fortune  when  you  are  in  a  condition  to  enjoy  a  walk.'  When  the  air 
and  water  taste  sweet  to  you,  how  much  else  witt  taste  sweet !  When  the 
exercise  of  your  limbs  affords  you  pleasure,  and  the  play  of  your  senses 
upon  the  various  objects  and  shows  of  Nature  quickens  and  stimulates 
your  spirit,  your  relation  to  the  world  and  to  yourself  is  what  it  should  be, 
—simple,  and  direct,  and  wholesome,"— JOHN  BUBROUQHS  :  Pepacton. 


AMPERSAND 

J.  HE  right  to  the  name  of  Ampersand,  like  the 
territory  of  Gaul  in  those  Commentaries  which 
Julius  Caesar  wrote  for  the  punishment  of  school- 
boys, is  divided  into  three  parts.  It  belongs  to  a 
mountain,  and  a  lake,  and  a  little  river. 

The  mountain  stands  in  the  heart  of  the  Adi- 
rondack country,  just  near  enough  to  the  thor- 
oughfare of  travel  for  thousands  of  people  to  see 
it  every  year,  and  just  far  enough  from  the  beaten 
track  to  be  unvisited  except  by  a  very  few  of  the 
wise  ones,  who  love  to  turn  aside.  Behind  the  moun- 
tain is  the  lake,  which  no  lazy  man  has  ever  seen. 
Out  of  the  lake  flows  the  stream,  winding  down  a 
long,  untrodden  forest  valley,  to  join  the  Stony 
Creek  waters  and  empty  into  the  Raquette  River. 

Which  of  the  three  Ampersands  has  the  prior 
claim  to  the  name,  I  cannot  tell.  Philosophically 
speaking,  the  mountain  ought  to  be  regarded  as 

69 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  head  of  the  family,  because  it  was  undoubtedly 
there  before  the  others.  And  the  lake  was  prob- 
ably the  next  on  the  ground,  because  the  stream  is 
its  child.  But  man  is  not  strictly  just  in  his  no- 
menclature; and  I  conjecture  that  the  little  river, 
the  last-born  of  the  three,  was  the  first  to  be  christ- 
ened Ampersand,  and  then  gave  its  name  to  its 
parent  and  grand-parent.  It  is  such  a  crooked 
stream,  so  bent  and  curved  and  twisted  upon  itself, 
so  fond  of  turning  around  unexpected  corners  and 
sweeping  away  in  great  circles  from  its  direct 
course,  that  its  first  explorers  christened  it  after 
the  eccentric  supernumerary  of  the  alphabet  which 
appears  in  the  old  spelling-books  as  # — and  per 
se,  and. 

But  in  spite  of  this  apparent  subordination  to 
the  stream  in  the  matter  of  a  name,  the  mountain 
clearly  asserts  its  natural  authority.  It  stands  up 
boldly;  and  not  only  its  own  lake,  but  at  least 
three  others,  the  Lower  Saranac,  Round  Lake,  and 
Lonesome  Pond,  lie  at  its  foot  and  acknowledge 
its  lordship.  When  the  cloud  is  on  its  brow,  they 
are  dark.  When  the  sunlight  strikes  it,  they  smile. 

70 


AMPERSAND 

Wherever  you  may  go  over  the  waters  of  these 
lakes  you  shall  see  Mount  Ampersand  looking 
down  at  you,  and  saying  quietly,  "This  is  my 
domain." 

I  never  look  at  a  mountain  which  asserts  itself 
in  this  fashion  without  desiring  to  stand  on  the 
top  of  it.  If  one  can  reach  the  summit,  one  becomes 
a  sharer  in  the  dominion.  The  difficulties  in  the 
way  only  add  to  the  zest  of  the  victory.  Every 
mountain  is,  rightly  considered,  an  invitation  to 
climb.  And  as  I  was  resting  for  a  month  one  sum- 
mer at  Bartlett's,  Ampersand  challenged  me  daily. 

Did  you  know  Bartlett's  in  its  palmy  time?  It 
was  the  homeliest,  quaintest,  coziest  place  in  the 
Adirondacks.  Away  back  in  the  ante-bettum  days 
Virgil  Bartlett  had  come  into  the  woods,  and  built 
his  house  on  the  bank  of  the  Saranac  River,  be- 
tween the  Upper  Saranac  and  Round  Lake.  It  was 
then  the  only  dwelling  within  a  circle  of  many 
miles.  The  deer  and  bear  were  in  the  majority.  At 
night  one  could  sometimes  hear  the  scream  of  the 
panther  or  the  howling  of  wolves.  But  soon  the 
wilderness  began  to  wear  the  traces  of  a  conven- 
71 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

tional  smile.  The  desert  blossomed  a  little — if  not 
as  the  rose,  at  least  as  the  gillj-flower.  Fields  were 
cleared,  gardens  planted;  half  a  dozen  log  cabins 
were  scattered  along  the  river;  and  the  old  house, 
having  grown  slowly  and  somewhat  irregularly  for 
twenty  years,  came  out,  just  before  the  time  of 
which  I  write,  in  a  modest  coat  of  paint  and  a 
broad-brimmed  piazza.  But  Virgil  himself,  the 
creator  of  the  oasis — well  known  of  hunters  and 
fishermen,  dreaded  of  lazy  guides  and  quarrelsome 
lumbermen, — "Virge,"  the  irascible,  kind-hearted, 
indefatigable,  was  there  no  longer.  He  had  made 
his  last  clearing,  and  fought  his  last  fight;  done 
his  last  favour  to  a  friend,  and  thrown  his  last 
adversary  out  of  the  tavern  door.  His  last  log  had 
gone  down  the  river.  His  camp-fire  had  burned 
out.  Peace  to  his  ashes.  His  wife,  who  had  often 
played  the  part  of  Abigail  toward  travellers  who 
had  unconsciously  incurred  the  old  man's  mistrust, 
now  reigned  in  his  stead;  and  there  was  great 
abundance  of  maple-syrup  on  every  man's  flapjack. 
The  charm  of  Bartlett's  for  the  angler  was  the 
stretch  of  rapid  water  in  front  of  the  house.  The 

72 


AMPERSAND 

Saranac  River,  breaking  from  its  first  resting- 
place  in  the  Upper  Lake,  plunged  down  through 
a  great  bed  of  rocks,  making  a  chain  of  short  falls 
and  pools  and  rapids,  about  half  a  mile  in  length. 
Here,  in  the  spring  and  early  summer,  the  speckled 
trout — brightest  and  daintiest  of  all  fish  that  swim 
— used  to  be  found  in  great  numbers.  As  the  sea- 
son advanced,  they  moved  away  into  the  deep 
water  of  the  lakes.  But  there  were  always  a  few 
stragglers  left,  and  I  have  taken  them  in  the 
rapids  at  the  very  end  of  August.  What  could  be 
more  delightful  than  to  spend  an  hour  or  two,  in 
the  early  morning  or  evening  of  a  hot  day,  in  wad- 
ing this  rushing  stream,  and  casting  the  fly  on  its 
clear  waters?  The  wind  blows  softly  down  the  nar- 
row valley,  and  the  trees  nod  from  the  rocks  above 
you.  The  noise  of  the  falls  makes  constant  music 
in  your  ears.  The  river  hurries  past  you,  and  yet 
it  is  never  gone. 

The  same  foam-flakes  seem  to  be  always  gliding 

downward,  the  same  spray  dashing  over  the  stones, 

the  same  eddy  coiling  at  the  edge  of  the  pool.  Send 

your  fly  in  under  those  cedar  branches,  where  the 

73 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

water  swirls  around  by  that  old  log.  Now  draw 
it  up  toward  the  foam.  There  is  a  sudden  gleam 
of  dull  gold  in  the  white  water.  You  strike  too 
soon.  Your  line  comes  back  to  you.  In  a  current 
like  this,  a  fish  will  almost  always  hook  himself. 
Try  it  again.  This  time  he  takes  the  fly  fairly, 
and  you  have  him.  It  is  a  good  fish,  and  he  makes 
the  slender  rod  bend  to  the  strain.  He  sulks  for  a 
moment  as  if  uncertain  what  to  do,  and  then  with 
a  rush  darts  into  the  swiftest  part  of  the  current. 
You  can  never  stop  him  there.  Let  him  go.  Keep 
just  enough  pressure  on  him  to  hold  the  hook  firm, 
and  follow  his  troutship  down  the  stream  as  if  he 
were  a  salmon.  He  slides  over  a  little  fall,  gleam- 
ing through  the  foam,  and  swings  around  in  the 
next  pool.  Here  you  can  manage  him  more  easily ; 
and  after  a  few  minutes'  brilliant  play,  a  few  mad 
dashes  for  the  current,  he  comes  to  the  net,  and 
your  skilful  guide  lands  him  with  a  quick,  steady 
sweep  of  the  arm.  The  scales  credit  him  with  an 
even  pound,  and  a  better  fish  than  this  you  will 
hardly  take  here  in  midsummer. 

"  On  my  word,  master,"  says  the  appreciative 
74 


AMPERSAND 

Venator,  in  Walton's  Angler,  "this  is  a  gallant 
trout;  what  shall  we  do  with  him?"  And  honest 
Piscator,  replies :  "Marry !  e'en  eat  him  to  supper ; 
we  '11  go  to  my  hostess  from  whence  we  came;  she 
told  me,  as  I  was  going  out  of  door,  that  my 
brother  Peter,  [and  who  is  this  but  Romeyn  of 
Keeseville?]  a  good  angler  and  a  cheerful  com- 
panion, had  sent  word  he  would  lodge  there  to- 
night, and  bring  a  friend  with  him.  My  hostess 
has  two  beds,  and  I  know  you  and  I  have  the  best; 
we  '11  rejoice  with  my  brother  Peter  and  his  friend, 
tell  tales,  or  sing  ballads,  or  make  a  catch,  or  find 
some  harmless  sport  to  content  us,  and  pass  away 
a  little  time  without  offence  to  God  or  man." 

Ampersand  waited  immovable  while  I  passed 
many  days  in  such  innocent  and  healthful  pleas- 
ures as  these,  until  the  right  day  came  for  the 
ascent.  Cool,  clean,  and  bright,  the  crystal  morn- 
ing promised  a  glorious  noon,  and  the  mountain 
almost  seemed  to  beckon  us  to  come  up  higher. 
The  photographic  camera  and  a  trustworthy  lunch 
were  stowed  away  in  the  pack-basket.  The  back- 
board was  adjusted  at  a  comfortable  angle  in  the 
75 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

stern  seat  of  our  little  boat.  The  guide  held  the 
little  craft  steady  while  I  stepped  into  my  place; 
then  he  pushed  out  into  the  stream,  and  we  went 
swiftly  down  toward  Round  Lake. 

A  Saranac  boat  is  one  of  the  finest  things  that 
the  skill  of  man  has  ever  produced  under  the  in- 
spiration of  the  wilderness.  It  is  a  frail  shell,  so 
light  that  a  guide  can  carry  it  on  his  shoulders 
with  ease,  but  so  dexterously  fashioned  that  it 
rides  the  heaviest  waves  like  a  duck,  and  slips 
through  the  water  as  if  by  magic.  You  can  travel 
in  it  along  the  shallowest  rivers  and  across  the 
broadest  lakes,  and  make  forty  or  fifty  miles  a  day, 
if  you  have  a  good  guide. 

Everything  depends,  in  the  Adirondacks,  as  in 
so  many  other  regions  of  life,  upon  your  guide. 
If  he  is  selfish,  or  surly,  or  stupid,  you  will  have  a 
bad  time.  But  if  he  is  an  Adirondacker  of  the 
best  old-fashioned  type, — now  unhappily  growing 
more  rare  from  year  to  year, — you  will  find  him 
an  inimitable  companion,  honest,  faithful,  skilful 
and  cheerful.  He  is  as  independent  as  a  prince, 
and  the  gilded  youths  and  finicking  fine  ladies  who 

76 


AMPERSAND 

attempt  to  patronise  him  are  apt  to  make  but  a 
sorry  show  before  his  solid  and  undisguised  con- 
tempt. But  deal  with  him  man  to  man,  and  he  will 
give  you  a  friendly,  loyal  service  which  money 
cannot  buy,  and  teach  you  secrets  of  woodcraft 
and  lessons  in  plain,  self-reliant  manhood  more 
valuable  than  all  the  learning  of  the  schools.  Such 
a  guide  was  mine,  rejoicing  in  the  Scriptural  name 
of  Hosea,  but  commonly  called,  in  brevity  and 
friendliness,  "Hose." 

As  we  entered  Round  Lake  on  this  fair  morn- 
ing, its  surface  was  as  smooth  and  shining  as  a 
mirror.  It  was  too  early  yet  for  the  tide  of  travel 
which  sends  a  score  of  boats  up  and  down  this 
thoroughfare  every  day;  and  from  shore  to  shore 
the  water  was  unruffled,  except  by  a  flock  of  shel- 
drakes which  had  been  feeding  near  Plymouth 
Rock,  and  now  went  skittering  off  into  Weller 
Bay  with  a  motion  between  flying  and  swimming, 
leaving  a  long  wake  of  foam  behind  them. 

At  such  a  time  as  this  you  can  see  the  real  colour 
of  these  Adirondack  lakes.  It  is  not  blue,  as  ro- 
mantic writers  so  often  describe  it,  nor  green,  like 
77 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

some  of  those  wonderful  Swiss  lakes;  although  of 
course  it  reflects  the  colour  of  the  trees  along  the 
shore;  and  when  the  wind  stirs  it,  it  gives  back 
the  hue  of  the  sky,  blue  when  it  is  clear,  gray 
when  the  clouds  are  gathering,  and  sometimes  as 
black  as  ink  under  the  shadow  of  storm.  But  when 
it  is  still,  the  water  itself  is  like  that  river  which 
one  of  the  poets  has  described  as 

"Flowing  with  a  smooth  brown  current." 

And  in  this  sheet  of  burnished  bronze  the  moun- 
tains and  islands  were  reflected  perfectly,  and  the 
sun  shone  back  from  it,  not  in  broken  gleams  or 
a  wide  lane  of  light,  but  like  a  single  ball  of  fire, 
moving  before  as  as  we  moved. 

But  stop !  What  is  that  dark  speck  on  the  water, 
away  down  toward  Turtle  Point?  It  has  just  the 
shape  and  size  of  a  deer's  head.  It  seems  to  move 
steadily  out  into  the  lake.  There  is  a  little  ripple, 
like  a  wake,  behind  it.  Hose  turns  to  look  at  it, 
and  then  sends  the  boat  darting  in  that  direction 
with  long,  swift  strokes.  It  is  a  moment  of  pleas- 
ant excitement,  and  we  begin  to  conjecture  whether 

78 


AMPERSAND 

the  deer  is  a  buck  or  a  doe,  and  whose  hounds  have 
driven  it  in.  But  when  Hose  turns  to  look  again, 
he  slackens  his  stroke,  and  says :  "I  guess  we  needn't 
to  hurry ;  he  won't  get  away.  It's  astonishin'  what 
a  lot  of  fun  a  man  can  get  in  the  course  of  a. 
natural  life  a-chasin'  chumps  of  wood." 

We  landed  on  a  sand  beach  at  the  mouth  of  a 
little  stream,  where  a  blazed  tree  marked  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Ampersand  trail.  This  line  through 
the  forest  was  made  years  ago  by  that  ardent 
sportsman  and  lover  of  the  Adirondacks,  Dr.  W. 
W.  Ely,  of  Rochester.  Since  that  time  it  has  been 
shortened  and  improved  a  little  by  other  travellers, 
and  also  not  a  little  blocked  and  confused  by  the 
lumbermen  and  the  course  of  Nature.  For  when  the 
lumbermen  go  into  the  woods,  they  cut  roads  in 
every  direction,  leading  nowhither,  and  the  unwary 
wanderer  is  thereby  led  aside  from  the  right  way, 
and  entangled  in  the  undergrowth.  And  as  for 
Nature,  she  is  entirely  opposed  to  continuance  of 
paths  through  her  forest.  She  covers  them  with 
fallen  leaves,  and  hides  them  with  thick  bushes. 
She  drops  great  trees  across  them,  and  blots  them 
79 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

out  with  windfalls.  But  the  blazed  line — a  succes- 
sion of  broad  axe-marks  on  the  trunks  of  the  trees, 
just  high  enough  to  catch  the  eye  on  a  level—- 
cannot be  so  easily  obliterated,  and  this,  after  all, 
is  the  safest  guide  through  the  woods. 

Our  trail  led  us  at  first  through  a  natural 
meadow,  overgrown  with  waist-high  grass,  and 
very  spongy  to  the  tread.  Hornet-haunted  also  was 
this  meadow,  and  therefore  no  place  for  idle  dalli- 
ance or  unwary  digression,  for  the  sting  of  the 
hornet  is  one  of  the  saddest  and  most  humiliating 
surprises  of  this  mortal  life. 

Then  through  a  tangle  of  old  wood-roads  my 
guide  led  me  safely,  and  we  struck  one  of  the  long 
ridges  which  slope  gently  from  the  lake  to  the 
base  of  the  mountain.  Here  walking  was  compara- 
tively easy,  for  in  the  hard-wood  timber  there  is 
little  underbrush.  The  massive  trunks  seemed  like 
pillars  set  to  uphold  the  level  roof  of  green.  Great 
yellow  birches,  shaggy  with  age,  stretched  their 
knotted  arms  high  above  us;  sugar-maples  stood 
up  straight  and  proud  under  their  leafy  crowns; 
and  smooth  beeches — the  most  polished  and  park- 

80 


AMPERSAND 

like  of  all  the  forest  trees — offered  opportunities 
for  the  carving  of  lovers'  names  in  a  place  where 
few  lovers  ever  come. 

The  woods  were  quiet.  It  seemed  as  if  all  living 
creatures  had  deserted  them.  Indeed,  if  you  have 
spent  much  time  in  our  Northern  forests,  you 
must  have  often  wondered  at  the  sparseness  of 
life,  and  felt  a  sense  of  pity  for  the  apparent  lone- 
liness of  the  squirrel  that  chatters  at  you  as  you 
pass,  or  the  little  bird  that  hops  noiselessly  about 
in  the  thickets.  The  midsummer  noontide  is  an 
especially  silent  time.  The  deer  are  asleep  in  some 
wild  meadow.  The  partridge  has  gathered  her 
brood  for  their  midday  nap.  The  squirrels  are 
perhaps  counting  over  their  store  of  nuts  in  a  hol- 
low tree,  and  the  hermit-thrush  spares  his  voice 
until  evening.  The  woods  are  close — not  cool  and 
fragrant  as  the  foolish  romances  describe  them — 
but  warm  and  still;  for  the  breeze  which  sweeps 
across  the  hilltop  and  ruffles  the  lake  does  not 
penetrate  into  these  shady  recesses,  and  therefore 
all  the  inhabitants  take  the  noontide  as  their  hour 
of  rest.  Only  the  big  woodpecker — he  of  the  scar- 

81 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

let  head  and  mighty  bill — is  indefatigable,  and 
somewhere  unseen  is  "tapping  the  hollow  beech- 
tree,"  while  a  wakeful  little  bird, — I  guess  it  is 
the  black-throated  green  warbler, — prolongs  his 
dreamy,  listless  ditty, — 'te-de-terit-sca, — 'te-de-us- 
wait. 

After  about  an  hour  of  easy  walking,  our  trail 
began  to  ascend  more  sharply.  We  passed  over  the 
shoulder  of  a  ridge  and  around  the  edge  of  a  fire- 
slash,  and  then  we  had  the  mountain  fairly  before 
us.  Not  that  we  could  see  anything  of  it,  for  the 
woods  still  shut  us  in,  but  the  path  became  very 
steep,  and  we  knew  that  it  was  a  straight  climb; 
not  up  and  down  and  round  about  did  this  most 
uncompromising  trail  proceed,  but  right  up,  in  a 
direct  line  for  the  summit. 

Now  this  side  of  Ampersand  is  steeper  than  any 
Gothic  roof  I  have  ever  seen,  and  withal  very  much 
encumbered  with  rocks  and  ledges  and  fallen  trees. 
There  were  places  where  we  had  to  haul  ourselves 
up  by  roots  and  branches,  and  places  where  we  had 
to  go  down  on  our  hands  and  knees  to  crawl  under 
logs.  It  was  breathless  work,  but  not  at  all  dan* 


AMPERSAND 

gerous  or  difficult.  Every  step  forward  was  also  a 
step  upward;  and  as  we  stopped  to  rest  for  a  mo- 
ment, we  could  see  already  glimpses  of  the  lake 
below  us.  But  at  these  I  did  not  much  care  to  look, 
for  I  think  it  is  a  pity  to  spoil  the  surprise  of  a 
grand  view  by  taking  little  snatches  of  it  before- 
hand. It  is  better  to  keep  one's  face  set  to  the 
mountain,  and  then,  coming  out  from  the  dark 
forest  upon  the  very  summit,  feel  the  splendour  of 
the  outlook  flash  upon  one  like  a  revelation. 

The  character  of  the  woods  through  which  we 
were  now  passing  was  entirely  different  from  those 
of  the  lower  levels.  On  these  steep  places  the  birch 
and  maple  will  not  grow,  or  at  least  they  occur 
but  sparsely.  The  higher  slopes  and  sharp  ridges 
of  the  mountains  are  always  covered  with  soft-wood 
timber.  Spruce  and  hemlock  and  balsam  strike  their 
roots  among  the  rocks,  and  find  a  hidden  nourish- 
ment. They  stand  close  together;  thickets  of  small 
trees  spring  up  among  the  large  ones;  from  year 
to  year  the  great  trunks  are  falling  one  across  an- 
other, and  the  undergrowth  is  thickening  around 
them,  until  a  spruce  forest  seems  to  be  almost  im- 
83 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

passable.  The  constant  rain  of  needles  and  the 
crumbling  of  the  fallen  trees  form  a  rich,  brown 
mould,  into  which  the  foot  sinks  noiselessly.  Won- 
derful beds  of  moss,  many  feet  in  thickness,  and 
softer  than  feathers,  cover  the  rocks  and  roots. 
There  are  shadows  never  broken  by  the  sun,  and 
dark,  cool  springs  of  icy  water  hidden  away  in  the 
crevices.  You  feel  a  senae  of  antiquity  here  which 
you  can  never  feel  among  the  maples  and  birches. 
Longfellow  was  right  when  he  filled  his  forest 
primeval  with  "murmuring  pines  and  hemlocks." 

The  higher  one  climbs,  the  darker  and  gloomier 
and  more  rugged  the  vegetation  becomes.  The 
pine-trees  soon  cease  to  follow  you;  the  hemlocks 
disappear,  and  the  balsams  can  go  no  farther. 
Only  the  hardy  spruce  keeps  on  bravely,  rough 
and  stunted,  with  branches  matted  together  and 
pressed  down  flat  by  the  weight  of  the  winter's 
snow,  until  finally,  somewhere  about  the  level  of 
four  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  even  this  bold 
climber  gives  out,  and  the  weather-beaten  rocks  of 
the  summit  are  clad  only  with  mosses  and  Alpine 
plants. 

M 


AMPERSAND 

Thus  it  is  with  mountains,  as  perhaps  with 
men,  a  mark  of  superior  dignity  to  be  naturally 
bald. 

Ampersand,  falling  short  by  a  thousand  feet  of 
the  needful  height,  cannot  claim  this  distinction. 
But  what  Nature  has  denied,  human  labour  has 
supplied.  Under  the  direction  of  the  Adirondack 
Survey,  some  years  ago,  several  acres  of  trees  were 
cut  from  the  summit ;  and  when  we  emerged,  after 
the  last  sharp  scramble,  upon  the  very  crest  of 
the  mountain,  we  were  not  shut  in  by  a  dense 
thicket,  but  stood  upon  a  bare  ridge  of  granite 
in  the  centre  of  a  ragged  clearing. 

I  shut  my  eyes  for  a  moment,  drew  a  few  long 
breaths  of  the  glorious  breeze,  and  then  looked  out 
upon  a  wonder  and  a  delight  beyond  description. 

A  soft,  dazzling  splendour  filled  the  air.  Snowy 
banks  and  drifts  of  cloud  were  floating  slowly  over 
a  wide  and  wondrous  land.  Vast  sweeps  of  forest, 
shining  waters,  mountains  near  and  far,  the  deep- 
est green  and  the  palest  blue,  changing  colours 
and  glancing  lights,  and  all  so  silent,  so  strange, 
so  far  away,  that  it  seemed  like  the  landscape  of 

85 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

a  dream.  One  almost  feared  to  speak,  lest  it  should 
vanish. 

Right  below  us  the  Lower  Saranac  and  Lone- 
some Pond,  Round  Lake  and  the  Weller  Ponds, 
were  spread  out  like  a  map.  Every  point  and  isl- 
and was  clearly  marked.  We  could  follow  the 
course  of  the  Saranac  River  in  all  its  curves  and 
windings,  and  see  the  white  tents  of  the  hay- 
makers on  the  wild  meadows.  Far  away  to  the 
northeast  stretched  the  level  fields  of  Blooming- 
dale.  But  westward  all  was  unbroken  wilderness,  a 
great  sea  of  woods  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 
And  how  far  it  can  reach  from  a  height  like  this! 
What  a  revelation  of  the  power  of  sight!  That 
faint  blue  outline  far  in  the  north  was  Lyon 
Mountain,  nearly  thirty  miles  away  as  the  crow 
flies.  Those  silver  gleams  a  little  nearer  were  the 
waters  of  St.  Regis.  The  Upper  Saranac  was  dis- 
played in  all  its  length  and  breadth,  and  beyond 
it  the  innumerable  waters  of  Fish  Creek  were 
tangled  among  the  dark  woods.  The  long  ranges 
of  the  hills  about  the  Jordan  bounded  the  western 
horizon,  and  on  the  southwest  Big  Tupper  Lake 

86 


AMPERSAND 

was  sleeping  at  the  base  of  Mount  Morris.  Look- 
ing past  the  peak  of  Stony  Creek  Mountain,  which 
rose  sharp  and  distinct  in  a  line  with  Ampersand, 
we  could  trace  the  path  of  the  Raquette  River 
from  the  distant  waters  of  Long  Lake  down 
through  its  far-stretched  valley,  and  catch  here 
and  there  a  silvery  link  of  its  current. 

But  when  we  turned  to  the  south  and  east,  how 
wonderful  and  how  different  was  the  view!  Here 
was  no  widespread  and  smiling  landscape  with 
gleams  of  silver  scattered  through  it,  and  soft  blue 
haze  resting  upon  its  fading  verge,  but  a  wild  land 
of  mountains,  stern,  rugged,  tumultuous,  rising 
one  beyond  another  like  the  waves  of  a  stormy 
ocean, — Ossa  piled  upin  Pelion, — Mclntyre's  sharp 
peak,  and  the  ragged  crest  of  the  Gothics,  and, 
above  all,  Marcy's  dome-like  head,  raised  just  far 
enough  above  the  others  to  assert  his  royal  right 
as  monarch  of  the  Adirondacks. 

But  grandest  of  all,  as  seen  from  this  height, 
was  Mount  Seward, — a  solemn  giant  of  a  moun- 
tain, standing  apart  from  the  others,  and  looking 
us  full  in  the  face.  He  was  clothed  from  base  to 
87 


LITTLE     RIVEIiS 

summit  in  a  dark,  unbroken  robe  of  forest.  Ou- 
Icor-lah*  the  Indians  called  him — the  Great  Eye; 
and  he  seemed  almost  to  frown  upon  us  in  defiance. 
At  his  feet,  so  straight  below  us  that  it  seemed 
almost  as  if  we  could  cast  a  stone  into  it,  lay  the 
wildest  and  most  beautiful  of  all  the  Adirondack 
waters — Ampersand  Lake. 

On  its  shore,  some  five-and-twenty  years  ago, 
the  now  almost  forgotten  Adirondack  Club  had 
their  shanty — the  successor  of  "the  Philosophers' 
Camp"  on  Follensbee  Pond.  Agassiz,  Appleton, 
Norton,  Emerson,  Lowell,  Hoar,  Gray,  John 
Holmes,  and  Stillman,  were  among  the  company 
who  made  their  resting-place  under  the  shadow  of 
Mount  Seward.  They  had  bought  a  tract  of  for- 
est land  completely  encircling  the  pond,  cut  a 
rough  road  to  it  through  the  woods,  and  built  a 
comfortable  log  cabin,  to  which  they  purposed  to 
return  summer  after  summer.  But  the  civil  war 
broke  out,  with  all  its  terrible  excitement  and  con- 
fusion of  hurrying  hosts :  the  club  existed  but  for 
two  years,  and  the  little  house  in  the  wilderness 
was  abandoned.  In  1878,  when  I  spent  three  weeks 

88 


AMPERSAND 

at  Ampersand,  the  cabin  was  in  ruins,  and  sur- 
rounded by  an  almost  impenetrable  growth  of 
bushes.  The  only  philosophers  to  be  seen  were  a 
family  of  what  the  guides  quaintly  call  "quill 
pigs."  The  roof  had  fallen  to  the  ground;  rasp- 
berry-bushes thrust  themselves  through  the  yawn- 
ing crevices  between  the  logs ;  and  in  front  of  the 
sunken  door-sill  lay  a  rusty,  broken  iron  stove,  like 
a  dismantled  altar  on  which  the  fire  had  gone  out 
forever. 

After  we  had  feasted  upon  the  view  as  long  as 
we  dared,  counted  the  lakes  and  streams,  and  found 
that  we  could  see  without  a  glass  more  than  thirty, 
and  recalled  the  memories  of  "good  times"  which 
came  to  us  from  almost  every  point  of  the  com- 
pass, we  unpacked  the  camera,  and  proceeded  to 
take  some  pictures. 

If  you  are  a  photographer,  and  have  anything 
of  the  amateur's  passion  for  your  art,  you  will 
appreciate  my  pleasure  and  my  anxiety.  Never  be- 
fore, so  far  as  I  knew,  had  a  camera  been  set  up 
on  Ampersand.  I  had  but  eight  plates  with  me. 
The  views  were  all  very  distant  and  all  at  a  down- 
89 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

ward  angle.  The  power  of  the  light  at  this  eleva 
tion  was  an  unknown  quantity.  And  the  wind  was 
sweeping  vigorously  across  the  open  summit  of  the 
mountain.  I  put  in  my  .smallest  stop,  and  prepared 
for  short  exposures. 

My  instrument  was  a  thing  called  a  Touro 
graph,  which  differs  from  most  other  cameras  in 
having  the  plate-holder  on  top  of  the  box.  The 
plates  are  dropped  into  a  groove  below,  and  then 
moved  into  focus,  after  which  the  cap  is  removed 
and  the  exposure  made. 

I  set  my  instrument  for  Ampersand  Pond, 
sighted  the  picture  through  the  ground  glass,  and 
measured  the  focus.  Then  I  waited  for  a  quiet 
moment,  dropped  the  plate,  moved  it  carefully 
forward  to  the  proper  mark,  and  went  around  to 
take  off  the  cap.  I  found  that  I  already  had  it  in 
my  hand,  and  the  plate  had  been  exposed  for  about 
thirty  seconds  with  a  sliding  focus! 

I  expostulated  with  myself.  I  said:  "You  are 
excited ;  you  are  stupid ;  you  are  unworthy  of  the 
name  of  photographer.  Light-writer!  You  ought 
to  write  with  a  whitewash-brush!"  The  reproof 

90 


AMPERSAND 

was  effectual,  and  from  that  moment  all  went  well. 
The  plates  dropped  smoothly,  the  camera  was 
steady,  the  exposure  was  correct.  Six  good  pict- 
ures were  made,  to  recall,  so  far  as  black  and  white 
could  do  it,  the  delights  of  that  day. 

It  has  been  my  good  luck  to  climb  many  of  the 
peaks  of  the  Adirondacks — Dix,  the  Dial,  Hurri- 
cane, the  Giant  of  the  Valley,  Marcy,  and  White- 
face — but  I  do  not  think  the  outlook  from  any  of 
them  is  so  wonderful  and  lovely  as  that  from  little 
Ampersand;  and  I  reckon  among  my  most  valu- 
able chattels  the  plates  of  glass  on  which  the  sun 
has  traced  for  me  (who  cannot  draw)  the  outlines 
of  that  loveliest  landscape. 

The  downward  journey  was  swift.  We  halted  for 
an  hour  or  two  beside  a  trickling  spring,  a  few 
rods  below  the  summit,  to  eat  our  lunch.  Then, 
jumping,  running,  and  sometimes  sliding,  we  made 
the  descent,  passed  in  safety  by  the  dreaded  lair 
of  the  hornet,  and  reached  Bartlett's  as  the  fra- 
grance of  the  evening  pancake  was  softly  diffused 
through  the  twilight.  Mark  that  day,  Memory, 

with  a  double  star  in  your  catalogue ! 
1885. 

91 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 


Scotland  is  the  home  of  romance  because  it  is  the  home  of  Scott,  Burns, 
Slack,  Macdonald,  Stevenson,  and  Barrie—and  of  thousands  of  men  like 
that  old  Highlander  in  kilts  on  the  tow-path,  who  loves  what  they  have 
written.  I  would  wager  he  has  a  copy  of  Burns  in  his  sporran,  and  has 
quoted  him  half  a  dozen  times  to  the  grim  Celt  who  is  walking  with  him. 
Those  old  boys  don't  read  for  excitement  or  knowledge,  but  because  they 
love  their  land  and  their  people  and  their  religion— and  their  great  writers 
simply  express  their  emotions  for  them  in  words  they  can  understand. 
You  and  I  come  over  here,  with  thousands  of  our  countrymen,  to  borrow 
their  emotions*"— BOBEBT  BRIDGES  :  Overheard  in  Arcady. 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

JM.Y  friend  the  Triumphant  Democrat,  fiercest  of 
radicals  and  kindest  of  men,  expresses  his  scorn 
for  monarchical  institutions  (and  his  invincible 
love  for  his  native  Scotland)  by  tenanting,  sum- 
mer after  summer,  a  famous  castle  among  the 
heathery  Highlands.  There  he  proclaims  the  most 
uncompromising  Americanism  in  a  speech  that 
grows  more  broadly  Scotch  with  every  week  of  his 
emancipation  from  the  influence  of  the  clipped, 
commercial  accent  of  New  York,  and  casts  con- 
tempt on  feudalism  by  playing  the  part  of  lord 
of  the  manor  to  such  a  perfection  of  high-handed 
beneficence  that  the  people  of  the  glen  are  all  be- 
come his  clansmen,  and  his  gentle  lady  would  be 
the  patron  saint  of  the  district — if  the  republican 
theology  of  Scotland  could  only  admit  saints 
among  the  elect. 

Every  year  he  sends  trophies  of  game  to  his 
95 


\ 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

friends  across  the  sea — birds  that  are  as  toothsome 
and  wild-flavoured  as  if  they  had  not  been  hatched 
under  the  tyranny  of  the  game-laws.  He  has  a 
pleasant  trick  of  making  them  grateful  to  the 
imagination  as  well  as  to  the  palate  by  packing 
them  in  heather.  I'll  warrant  that  Aaron's  rod  bore 
no  bonnier  blossoms  than  these  stiff  little  bushes — 
and  none  more  magical.  For  every  time  I  take  up 
a  handful  of  them  they  transport  me  to  the  High* 
lands,  and  send  me  tramping  once  more,  with 
knapsack  and  fishing-rod,  over  the  braes  and  down 
the  burns. 


BEI/L-HEATHER. 

Some  of  my  happiest  meanderings  in  Scotland 
have  been  taken  under  the  lead  of  a  book.  Indeed, 
for  travel  in  a  strange  country  there  can  be  no 
better  courier.  Not  a  guide-book,  I  mean,  but  a 
real  book,  and,  by  preference,  a  novel. 

Fiction,  like  wine,  tastes  best  in  the  place  where 
it  was  grown.  And  the  scenery  of  a  foreign  land 
(including  architecture,  which  is  artificial  land- 

96 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

scape)  grows  less  dreamlike  and  unreal  to  our  pep 
ception  when  we  people  it  with  familiar  characters 
from  our  favourite  novels.  Even  on  a  first  journey 
we  feel  ourselves  among  old  friends.  Thus  to  read 
Romola  in  Florence,  and  Les  Miserables  in  Paris, 
and  Lorna  Doone  on  Exmoor,  and  The  Heart  of 
Midlothian  in  Edinburgh,  and  David  Balfour  in 
the  Pass  of  Glencoe,  and  The  Pirate  in  the  Shet- 
land Isles,  is  to  get  a  new  sense  of  the  possibilities 
of  life.  All  these  things  have  I  done  with  much 
inward  contentment;  and  other  things  of  like 
quality  have  I  yet  in  store;  as,  for  example,  the 
conjunction  of  The  Bonnie  Brier-Bush  with  Drum- 
tochty,  and  TJte  Little  Minister  with  Thrums,  and 
The  Raiders  with  Galloway.  But  I  never  expect  to 
pass  pleasanter  days  than  those  I  spent  with  A 
Princess  of  Thule  among  the  Hebrides. 

For  then,  to  begin  with,  I  was  young;  which  is 
an  unearned  increment  of  delight  sure  to  be  con- 
fiscated by  the  envious  years  and  never  regained. 
But  even  youth  itself  was  not  to  be  compared  with 
the  exquisite  felicity  of  being  deeply  and  desper- 
ately in  love  with  Sheila,  the  clear-eyed  heroine 
97 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

of  that  charming  book.  In  this  innocent  passion  my 
gray-haired  comrades,  Howard  Crosby,  the  Chan- 
cellor of  the  University  of  New  York,  and  my 
father,  an  ex-Moderator  of  the  Presbyterian  Gen- 
eral Assembly,  were  ardent  but  generous  rivals. 

How  great  is  the  joy  and  how  fascinating  the 
pursuit  of  such  an  ethereal  affection!  It  enlarges 
the  heart  without  embarrassing  the  conscience.  It  is 
a  cup  of  pure  gladness  with  no  bitterness  in  its 
dregs.  It  spends  the  present  moment  with  a  free 
hand,  and  yet  leaves  no  undesirable  mortgage  upon 
the  future.  King  Arthur,  the  founder  of  the  Round 
Table,  expressed  a  conviction,  according  to  Ten- 
nyson, that  the  most  important  element  in  a  young 
knight's  education  is  "the  maiden  passion  for  a 
maid."  Surely  the  safest  form  in  which  this  course 
in  the  curriculum  may  be  taken  is  by  falling  in 
love  with  a  girl  in  a  book.  It  is  the  only  affair  of 
the  kind  into  which  a  young  fellow  can  enter  with- 
out responsibility,  and  out  of  which  he  can  always 
emerge,  when  necessary,  without  discredit.  And  as 
for  the  old  fellow  who  still  keeps  up  this  educa- 
tion of  the  heart,  and  worships  his  heroine  with 

98 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

the  ardour  of  a  John  Ridd  and  the  fidelity  of  a 
Henry  Esmond,  I  maintain  that  he  is  exempt  from 
all  the  penalties  of  declining  years.  The  man  who 
can  love  a  girl  in  a  book  may  be  old,  but  nevei 
aged. 

So  we  sailed,  lovers  all  three,  among  the  West- 
ern Isles,  and  whatever  ship  it  was  that  carried  us, 
her  figurehead  was  always  the  Princess  Sheila. 
Along  the  ruffled  blue  waters  of  the  sounds  and 
lochs  that  wind  among  the  roots  of  unpronounce- 
able mountains,  and  past  the  dark  hills  of  Skye, 
and  through  the  unnumbered  flocks  of  craggy 
islets  where  the  sea-birds  nest,  the  spell  of  the 
sweet  Highland  maid  drew  us,  and  we  were  pil- 
grims to  the  Ultima  Thtde  where  she  lived  and 
reigned. 

The  Lewis,  with  its  tail-piece,  the  Harris,  is  quite 
a  sizable  island  to  be  appended  to  such  a  country 
as  Scotland.  It  is  a  number  of  miles  long,  and  an- 
other number  of  miles  wide,  and  it  has  a  number 
of  thousand  inhabitants — I  should  say  as  many  as 
three-quarters  of  an  inhabitant  to  the  square  mfle 
• — and  the  conditions  of  agriculture  and  the  fish- 
99 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

cries  are  extremely  interesting  and  quarrelsome. 
All  these  I  duly  studied  at  the  time,  and  reported 
in  a  series  of  intolerably  dull  letters  to  the  news- 
paper which  supplied  a  financial  basis  for  my  sen- 
timental journey.  They  are  full  of  information; 
but  I  have  been  amused  to  note,  after  these  many 
years,  how  wide  they  steer  of  the  true  motive  and 
interest  of  the  excursion.  There  is  not  even  a  hint 
of  Sheila  in  any  of  them.  Youth,  after  all,  is 
a  shamefaced  and  secretive  season ;  like  the  fringed 
polygala,  it  hides  its  real  blossom  underground. 

It  was  Sheila's  dark -blue  dress  and  sailor  hat 
with  the  white  feather  that  we  looked  for  as  we 
loafed  through  the  streets  of  Stornoway,  that 
quaint  metropolis  of  the  herring-trade,  where 
strings  of  fish  alternated  with  boxes  of  flowers  in 
the  windows,  and  handfuls  of  fish  were  spread 
upon  the  roofs  to  dry  just  as  the  sliced  apples  are 
exposed  upon  the  kitchen-sheds  of  New  England 
in  September,  and  dark-haired  women  were  carry- 
ing great  creels  of  fish  on  their  shoulders,  and 
groups  of  sunburned  men  were  smoking  among 
the  fishing-boats  o»  the  beach  and  talking  about 
100 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

fish,  and  sea-gulls  were  floating  over  the  houses 
with  their  heads  turning  from  side  to  side  and 
their  bright  eyes  peering  everywhere  for  unconsid- 
ered  trifles  of  fish,  and  the  whole  atmosphere  of 
the  place,  physical,  mental,  and  moral,  was  per- 
vaded with  fish.  It  was  Sheila's  soft,  sing-song 
Highland  speech  that  we  heard  through  the  long, 
luminous  twilight  in  the  pauses  of  that  friendly 
chat  on  the  balcony  of  the  little  inn  where  a  good 
fortune  brought  us  acquainted  with  Sam  Bough, 
the  mellow  Edinburgh  painter.  It  was  Sheila's  low 
sweet  brow,  and  long  black  eyelashes,  and  tender 
blue  eyes,  that  we  saw  before  us  as  we  loitered 
over  the  open  moorland,  a  far-rolling  sea  of  brown 
billows,  reddened  with  patches  of  bell-heather,  and 
brightened  here  and  there  with  little  lakes  lying 
wide  open  to  the  sky.  And  were  not  these  peat- 
cutters,  with  the  big  baskets  on  their  backs,  walk- 
ing in  silhouette  along  the  ridges,  the  people  that 
Sheila  loved  and  tried  to  help ;  and  were  not  these 
crofters'  cottages  with  thatched  roofs,  like  beehives, 
blending  almost  imperceptibly  with  the  landscape, 
the  dwellings  into  which  she  planned  to  introduce 
101 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  luxury  of  windows ;  and  were  not  these  Stand- 
ing Stones  of  Callernish,  huge  tombstones  of  a 
vanished  religion,  the  roofless  temple  from  which 
the  Druids  paid  their  westernmost  adoration  to  the 
setting  sun  as  he  sank  into  the  Atlantic — was  not 
this  the  place  where  Sheila  picked  the  bunch  of 
wild  flowers  and  gave  it  to  her  lover?  There  is 
nothing  in  history,  I  am  sure,  half  so  real  to  us 
as  some  of  the  things  in  fiction.  The  influence  of 
an  event  upon  our  character  is  little  affected  by 
considerations  as  to  whether  or  not  it  ever  hap- 
pened. 

There  were  three  churches  in  Stornoway,  all 
Presbyterian,  of  course,  and  therefore  full  of 
pious  emulation.  The  idea  of  securing  an  Ameri- 
can preacher  for  an  August  Sabbath  seemed  to 
fall  upon  them  simultaneously,  and  to  offer  the 
prospect  of  novelty  without  too  much  danger.  The 
brethren  of  the  U.  P.  congregation,  being  a  trifle 
more  gleg  than  the  others,  arrived  first  at  the  inn, 
and  secured  the  promise  of  a  me  rning  sermon  from 
Chancellor  Howard  Crosby.  Mie  session  of  the 
Free  Kirk  came  in  a  body  a  little  later,  and  to 
102 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

them  my  father  pledged  himself  for  the  evening 
sermon.  The  senior  elder  of  the  Established  Kirk, 
a  snuff-taking  man  and  very  deliberate,  was  the 
last  to  appear,  and  to  his  request  for  an  afternoon 
sermon  there  was  nothing  left  to  offer  but  the  ser- 
vices of  the  young  probationer  in  theology.  I  could 
see  that  it  struck  him  as  a  perilous  adventure. 
Questions  about  "the  fundamentals"  glinted  in  his 
watery  eye.  He  crossed  and  uncrossed  his  legs 
with  solemnity,  and  blew  his  nose  so  frequently  in 
a  huge  red  silk  handkerchief  that  it  seemed  like  a 
signal  of  danger.  At  last  he  unburdened  himself 
of  his  hesitations. 

"Ah  5m  not  saying  that  the  young  man  will  not 
be  orthodox — ahem!  But  ye  know,  sir,  in  the 
Kirk,  we  are  not  using  hymns,  but  just  the  pure 
Psawms  of  Daffit,  in  the  meetrical  fairsion.  And 
ye  know,  sir,  they  are  ferry  tifficult  in  the  reating, 
whatefer,  for  a  young  man,  and  one  that  iss  a 
stranger.  And  if  his  father  will  just  be  coming 
with  him  in  the  pulpit,  to  see  that  nothing  iss  said 
amiss,  that  will  be  ferry  comforting  to  the  con- 
gregation." 

103 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

So  the  dear  governor  swallowed  his  laughter 
gravely  and  went  surety  for  his  son.  They  ap- 
peared together  in  the  church,  a  barnlike  edifice, 
with  great  galleries  half-way  between  the  floor 
and  the  roof.  Still  higher  up,  the  pulpit  stuck  lik<* 
a  swallow's  nest  against  the  wall.  The  two  min- 
isters climbed  the  precipitous  stair  and  found  them* 
selves  in  a  box  so  narrow  that  one  must  stand  per- 
force, while  the  other  sat  upon  the  only  seat.  In 
this  "ride  and  tie"  fashion  they  went  through  the 
service.  When  it  was  time  to  preach,  the  young 
man  dropped  the  doctrines  as  discreetly  as  pos- 
sible upon  the  upturned  countenances  beneath  him. 
I  have  forgotten  now  what  it  was  all  about,  but 
there  was  a  quotation  from  the  Song  of  Solomon, 
ending  with  "Sweet  is  thy  voice,  and  thy  coun- 
tenance is  comely."  And  when  it  came  to  that,  the 
probationer's  eyes  (if  the  truth  must  be  told)  went 
searching  through  that  sea  of  faces  for  one  that 
should  be  familiar  to  his  heart,  and  to  which  he 
might  make  a  personal  application  of  the  Script- 
ure passage — even  the  face  of  Sheila. 

There  are  rivers  in  the  Lewis,  at  least  two  of 
104 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

them,  and  on  one  of  these  we  had  the  offer  of  a 
rod  for  a  day's  fishing.  Accordingly  we  cast  lots, 
and  the  lot  fell  upon  the  youngest,  and  I  went 
forth  with  a  tall,  red-legged  gillie,  to  try  for  my 
first  salmon.  The  Whitewater  came  singing  down 
out  of  the  moorland  into  a  rocky  valley,  and  there 
was  a  merry  curl  of  air  on  the  pools,  and  the  sil- 
ver fish  were  leaping  from  the  stream.  The  gillie 
handled  the  big  rod  as  if  it  had  been  a  fairy's 
wand,  but  to  me  it  was  like  a  giant's  spear.  It  was 
a  very  different  affair  from  fishing  with  five 
ounces  of  split  bamboo  on  a  Long  Island  trout- 
pond.  The  monstrous  fly,  like  an  awkward  bird, 
went  fluttering  everywhere  but  in  the  right  direc- 
tion. It  was  the  mercy  of  Providence  that  pre- 
served the  gillie's  life.  But  he  was  very  patient  and 
forbearing,  leading  me  on  from  one  pool  to  an- 
other, as  I  spoiled  the  water  and  snatched  the 
hook  out  of  the  mouth  of  rising  fish,  until  at 
last  we  found  a  salmon  that  knew  even  less  about 
the  niceties  of  salmon-fishing  than  I  did.  He  seized 
the  fly  firmly,  before  I  could  pull  it  away,  and 
then,  in  a  moment,  I  found  myself  attached  to  a 
105 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

creature  with  the  strength  of  a  whale  and  the 
agility  of  a  flying-fish.  He  led  me  rushing  up  and 
down  the  bank  like  a  madman.  He  played  on  the 
surface  like  a  whirlwind,  and  sulked  at  the  bottom 
like  a  stone.  He  meditated,  with  ominous  delay,  in 
the  middle  of  the  deepest  pool,  and  then,  darting 
across  the  river,  flung  himself  clean  out  of  water 
and  landed  far  up  on  the  green  turf  of  the  oppo- 
site shore.  My  heart  melted  like  a  snowflake  in  the 
sea,  and  I  thought  that  I  had  lost  him  forever. 
But  he  rolled  quietly  back  into  the  water  with  the 
hook  still  set  in  his  nose.  A  few  minutes  afterwards 
I  brought  him  within  reach  of  the  gaff,  and  my 
first  salmon  was  glittering  on  the  grass  beside  me. 
Then  I  remembered  that  William  Black  had  de- 
scribed this  very  fish  in  A  Prmcess  of  Thule. 
I  pulled  the  book  from  my  pocket,  and,  lighting 
a  pipe,  sat  down  to  read  that  delightful  chapter 
over  again.  The  breeze  played  softly  down  the 
valley.  The  warm  sunlight  was  filled  with  the 
musical  hum  of  insects  and  the  murmur  of  fall- 
ing waters.  I  thought  how  much  pleasanter  it 
would  have  been  to  learn  salmon-fishing,  as  BlacVi 
106 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

hero  did,  from  the  Maid  of  Borva,  than  from  a 
red-headed  gillie.  But,  then,  his  salmon,  after  leap- 
ing across  the  stream,  got  away;  whereas  mine 
was  safe.  A  man  cannot  have  everything  in  this 
world.  I  picked  a  spray  of  rosy  bell-heather  from 
the  bank  of  the  river,  and  pressed  it  between  the 
leaves  of  the  book  in  memory  of  Sheila. 


COMMON    HEATHEB. 

It  is  not  half  as  far  from  Albany  to  Aberdeen 
as  it  is  from  New  York  to  London.  In  fact,  I  vent- 
ure to  say  that  an  American  on  foot  will  find  him- 
self less  a  foreigner  in  Scotland  than  in  any  other 
country  in  the  Old  World.  There  is  something 
warm  and  hospitable — if  he  knew  the  language 
well  enough  he  would  call  it  coutliy — in  the  greet- 
ing that  he  gets  from  the  shepherd  on  the  moor, 
and  the  conversation  that  he  holds  with  the 
farmer's  wife  in  the  stone  cottage,  where  he  stops 
to  ask  for  a  drink  of  milk  and  a  bit  of  oat-cake. 
He  feels  that  there  must  be  a  drop  of  Scotch  some- 
107 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

where  in  his  mingled  blood,  or  at  least  that  the 
texture  of  his  thought  and  feelings  has  been 
partly  woven  on  a  Scottish  loom — perhaps  the 
Shorter  Catechism,  or  Robert  Burns's  poems,  or 
the  romances  of  Sir  Walter  Scott.  At  all  events, 
he  is  among  a  kindred  and  comprehending  peo- 
ple. They  do  not  speak  English  in  the  same  way 
that  he  does — through  the  nose — but  they  think 
very  much  more  in  his  mental  dialect  than  the 
English  do.  They  are  independent  and  wide  awake, 
curious  and  full  of  personal  interest.  The  wayside 
mind  in  Inverness  or  Perth  runs  more  to  muscle 
and  less  to  fat,  has  more  active  vanity  and  less 
passive  pride,  is  more  inquisitive  and  excitable  and 
sympathetic — in  short,  to  use  a  symbolist's  descrip- 
tion, it  is  more  apt  to  be  red-headed — than  in 
Surrey  or  Somerset.  Scotchmen  ask  more  ques- 
tions about  America,  but  fewer  foolish  ones.  You 
will  never  hear  them  inquiring  whether  there  is 
any  good  bear-hunting  in  the  neighbourhood  of 
Boston,  or  whether  Shakespeare  is  much  read  in 
the  States.  They  have  a  healthy  respect  for  our 
institutions,  and  have  quite  forgiven  (if,  indeed, 
108 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

they  ever  resented)  that  little  affair  in  1776.  They 
are  all  born  Liberals.  When  a  Scotchman  says  he 
is  a  Conservative,  it  only  means  that  he  is  a  Lib- 
eral with  hesitations. 

And  yet  in  North  Britain  the  American  pedes- 
trian will  not  find  that  amused  and  somewhat  con- 
descending toleration  for  his  peculiarities,  that 
placid  willingness  to  make  the  best  of  all  his 
vagaries  of  speech  and  conduct,  that  he  finds  in 
South  Britain.  In  an  English  town  you  may  do 
pretty  much  what  you  like  on  a  Sunday,  even  to 
the  extent  of  wearing  a  billycock  hat  to  church, 
and  people  will  put  up  with  it  from  a  country- 
man of  Buffalo  Bill  and  the  Wild  West  Show. 
But  in  a  Scotch  village,  if  you  whistle  in  the  street 
on  a  Lord's  Day,  though  it  be  a  Moody  and  San- 
key  tune,  you  will  be  likely  to  get,  as  I  did,  an 
admonition  from  some  long-legged,  grizzled  elder: 

"Young  man,  do  ye  no  ken  it  9s  the  Sawbath 
Day?" 

I  recognised  the  reproof  of  the  righteous,  an 
excellent  oil  which  doth  not  break  the  head,  and 
took  it  gratefully  at  the  old  man's  hands.  For  did 
109 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

it  not  prove  that  he  regarded  me  as  a  man  and  a 
brother,  a  creature  capable  of  being  civilised  and 
saved? 

It  was  in  the  gray  town  of  Dingwall  that  I  had 
this  bit  of  pleasant  correction,  as  I  was  on  the 
way  to  a  fishing  tramp  through  Sutherlandshire. 
This  northwest  corner  of  Great  Britain  is  the  best 
place  in  the  whole  island  for  a  modest  and  impe- 
cunious angler.  There  are,  or  there  were  a  few 
years  ago,  wild  lochs  and  streams  which  are  still 
practically  free,  and  a  man  who  is  content  with 
small  things  can  pick  up  some  very  pretty  sport 
from  the  highland  inns,  and  make  a  good  basket 
of  memorable  experiences  every  week. 

The  inn  at  Lairg,  overlooking  the  narrow  wa- 
ters of  Loch  Shin,  was  embowered  in  honeysuckles, 
and  full  of  creature  comfort.  But  there  were  too 
many  other  men  with  rods  there  to  suit  my  taste. 
"The  feesh  in  this  loch,"  said  the  boatman,  "iss 
not  so  numerous  ass  the  feeshermen,  but  more  wise. 
There  iss  not  one  of  them  that  hass  not  felt  the 
hook,  and  they  know  ferry  well  what  side  of  the 
fly  has  the  forkit  tail.5* 

110 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

At  Altnaharra,  in  the  shadow  of  Ben  Clebrig, 
there  was  a  cozy  little  house  with  good  fare,  and 
abundant  trout-fishing  in  Loch  Naver  and  Loch 
Meadie.  It  was  there  that  I  fell  in  with  a  wander- 
ing pearl-peddler  who  gathered  his  wares  from  the 
mussels  in  the  moorland  streams.  They  were  not 
of  the  finest  quality,  these  Scotch  pearls,  but  they 
had  pretty,  changeable  colours  of  pink  and  blue 
upon  them,  like  the  iridescent  light  that  plays 
over  the  heather  in  the  long  northern  evenings.  I 
thought  it  must  be  a  hard  life  for  the  man,  wad- 
ing day  after  day  in  the  ice-cold  water,  and  grop- 
ing among  the  coggly,  sliddery  stones  for  the 
shellfish,  and  cracking  open  perhaps  a  thousand 
before  he  could  find  one  pearl.  "Oh,  yess,"  said 
he,  "and  it  iss  not  an  easy  life,  and  I  am  not  say- 
ing that  it  will  be  so  warm  and  dry  ass  liffing  in 
a  rich  house.  But  it  iss  the  life  that  I  am  fit  for, 
and  I  hef  my  own  time  and  my  thoughts  to  my- 
se?,  and  that  is  a  ferry  goot  thing;  and  then,  sir, 
I  haf  found  the  Pearl  of  Great  Price,  and  I  think 
upon  that  day  and  night." 

Under  the  black,  shattered  peaks  of  Ben  Lao* 
111 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

ghal,  where  I  saw  an  eagle  poising  day  after  day 
as  if  some  invisible  centripetal  force  bound  him 
forever  to  that  small  circle  of  air,  there  was  a 
loch  with  plenty  of  brown  trout  and  a  few  salmo 
ferox;  and  down  at  Tongue  there  was  a  little  river 
where  the  sea-trout  sometimes  come  up  with  the 
tide. 

Here  I  found  myself  upon  the  north  coast,  and 
took  the  road  eastward  between  the  mountains  and 
the  sea.  It  was  a  beautiful  region  of  desolation. 
There  were  rocky  glens  cutting  across  the  road, 
and  occasionally  a  brawling  stream  ran  down  to 
the  salt  water,  breaking  the  line  of  cliffs  with  a 
little  bay  and  a  half-moon  of  yellow  sand.  The 
heather  covered  all  the  hills.  There  were  no  trees, 
and  but  few  houses.  The  chief  signs  of  human 
labour  were  the  rounded  piles  of  peat,  and  the 
square  cuttings  in  the  moor  marking  the  places 
where  the  subterranean  wood-choppers  had  gath- 
ered their  harvests.  The  long  straths  were  once  cul- 
tivated, and  every  patch  of  arable  land  had  its 
group  of  cottages  full  of  children.  The  human 
harvest  has  always  been  the  richest  and  most  abun- 


A    HANDFUL   OF    HEATHER 

dant  that  is  raised  in  the  Highlands ;  but  unfortu- 
nately the  supply  exceeded  the  demand;  and  so 
the  crofters  were  evicted,  and  great  flocks  of  sheep 
were  put  in  possession  of  the  land;  and  now  the 
sheep-pastures  have  been  changed  into  deer-forests ; 
and  far  and  wide  along  the  valleys  and  across  the 
hills  there  is  not  a  trace  of  habitation,  except  the 
heaps  of  stones  and  the  clumps  of  straggling 
bushes  which  mark  the  sites  of  lost  homes.  But 
what  is  one  country's  loss  is  another  country's  gain. 
Canada  and  the  United  States  are  infinitely  the 
richer  for  the  tough,  strong,  fearless,  honest  men 
that  were  dispersed  from  these  lonely  straths  to 
make  new  homes  across  the  sea. 

It  was  after  sundown  when  I  reached  the  strag- 
gling village  of  Melvich,  and  the  long  day's  jour- 
ney had  left  me  weary.  But  the  inn,  with  its  red- 
curtained  windows,  looked  bright  and  reassuring. 
Thoughts  of  dinner  and  a  good  bed  comforted  my 
spirit — prematurely.  For  the  inn  was  full.  There 
were  but  five  bedrooms  and  two  parlours.  The  gen- 
tlemen who  had  the  neighbouring  shootings  occu- 
pied three  bedrooms  and  a  parlour;  the  other  two 
113 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

bedrooms  had  just  been  taken  by  the  English  fish- 
ermen who  had  passed  me  in  the  road  an  hour  ago 
in  the  mail-coach  (oh!  why  had  I  not  suspected 
that  treacherous  vehicle?);  and  the  landlord  and 
his  wife  assured  me,  with  equal  firmness  and  sym- 
pathy, that  there  was  not  another  cot  or  pair  of 
blankets  in  the  house.  I  believed  them,  and  was  sink- 
ing into  despair  when  Sandy  M'Kaye  appeared  on 
the  scene  as  my  angel  of  deliverance.  Sandy  was 
a  small,  withered,  wiry  man,  dressed  in  rusty  gray, 
with  an  immense  white  collar  thrusting  out  its 
points  on  either  side  of  his  chin,  and  a  black  stock 
climbing  over  the  top  of  it.  I  guessed  from  his 
speech  that  he  had  once  lived  in  the  lowlands.  He 
had  hoped  to  be  engaged  as  a  gillie  by  the  shoot- 
ing party,  but  had  been  disappointed.  He  had 
wanted  to  be  taken  by  the  English  fishermen,  but 
another  and  younger  man  had  stepped  in  before 
him.  Now  Sandy  saw  in  me  his  Predestinated  Op- 
portunity, and  had  no  idea  of  letting  it  post  up 
the  road  that  night  to  the  next  village.  He  cleared 
his  throat  respectfully  and  cut  into  the  conver- 
sation. 


A    HANDFUL   OF    HEATHER 

"Ah  'm  thinkin'  the  gentleman  micht  find  a 
coomfortaible  lodgin'  wi'  the  weedow  Macphairson 
a  wee  bittie  doon  the  road.  Her  dochter  is  awa'  in 
Ameriky,  an'  the  room  is  a  verra  fine  room,  an'  it 
is  a  peety  to  hae  it  stannin'  idle,  an'  ye  wudna 
mind  the  few  steps  to  and  fro  tae  yir  meals  here, 
sir,  wud  ye?  An'  if  ye  'ill  gang  wi'  me  efter  din- 
ner, 'a  '11  be  prood  to  shoo  ye  the  hoose." 

So,  after  a  good  dinner  with  the  English  fisher- 
men, Sandy  piloted  me  down  the  road  through  the 
thickening  dusk.  I  remember  a  hoodie  crow  flew 
close  behind  us  with  a  choking,  ghostly  cough  that 
startled  me.  The  Macpherson  cottage  was  a  snug 
little  house  of  stone,  with  fuchsias  and  roses  grow- 
ing in  the  front  yard :  and  the  widow  was  a  douce 
old  lady,  with  a  face  like  a  winter  apple  in  the 
month  of  April,  wrinkled,  but  still  rosy.  She  was 
a  little  doubtful  about  entertaining  strangers,  but 
when  she  heard  I  was  from  America  she  opened 
the  doors  of  her  house  and  her  heart.  And  when, 
by  8  subtle  cross  examination  that  would  have  been 
a  credit  to  the  wife  of  a  Connecticut  deacon,  she 
discovered  the  fact  that  her  lodger  was  a  minister, 
115 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

she  did  two  things,  with  equal  and  immediate  fer- 
vour; she  brought  out  the  big  Bible  and  asked 
him  to  conduct  evening  worship,  and  she  produced 
a  bottle  of  old  Glenlivet  and  begged  him  to 
"guard  against  takkin'  cauld  by  takkin'  a  glass 
of  speerits." 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  fortnight  at  Melvich. 
Mistress  Macpherson  was  so  motherly  that  "tak- 
kin' cauld"  was  reduced  to  a  permanent  impossi- 
bility. The  other  men  at  the  inn  proved  to  be  very 
companionable  fellows,  quite  different  from  the 
monsters  of  insolence  that  my  anger  had  imagined 
in  the  moment  of  disappointment.  The  shooting 
party  kept  the  table  abundantly  supplied  with 
grouse  and  hares  and  highland  venison ;  and  there 
was  a  piper  to  march  up  and  down  before  the  win- 
dow and  play  while  we  ate  dinner — a  very  com- 
plimentary and  disquieting  performance.  But  there 
are  many  occasions  in  life  when  pride  can  be  enter- 
tained only  at  the  expense  of  comfort. 

Of  course  Sandy  was  my  gillie.  It  was  a  fine 
sight  to  see  him  exhibiting  the  tiny  American 
trout-rod,  tied  with  silk  ribbons  in  its  delicate  case, 
116 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

to  the  other  gillies  and  exulting  over  them.  Every 
morning  he  would  lead  me  away  through  the 
heather  to  some  lonely  loch  on  the  shoulders  of 
the  hills,  from  which  we  could  look  down  upon 
the  Northern  Sea  and  the  blue  Orkney  Isles  far 
away  across  the  Pentland  Firth.  Sometimes  we 
would  find  a  loch  with  a  boat  on  it,  and  drift  up 
and  down,  casting  along  the  shores.  Sometimes,  in 
spite  of  Sandy's  confident  predictions,  no  boat 
could  be  found,  and  then  I  must  put  on  the  Mack- 
intosh trousers  and  wade  out  over  my  hips  into 
the  water,  and  circumambulate  the  pond,  throwing 
the  flies  as  far  as  possible  toward  the  middle,  and 
feeling  my  way  carefully  along  the  bottom  with 
the  long  net-handle,  while  Sandy  danced  on  the 
bank  in  an  agony  of  apprehension  lest  his  Pre- 
destinated Opportunity  should  step  into  a  deep 
hole  and  be  drowned.  It  was  a  curious  fact  in 
natural  history  that  on  the  lochs  with  boats  the 
trout  were  in  the  shallow  water,  but  in  the  boatless 
lochs  they  were  away  out  in  the  depths.  "Juist  the 
total  depraivity  o'  troots,"  said  Sandy,  "an'  ter- 
rible fateegin'." 

117 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

Sandy  had  an  aversion  to  commit  himself  to 
definite  statements  on  any  subject  not  theological. 
If  you  asked  him  how  long  the  morning's  tramp 
would  be,  it  was  "no  verfa  long,  juist  a  bit  ay  ant 
the  hull  yonner."  And  if,  at  the  end  of  the  seventh 
mile,  you  complained  that  it  was  much  too  far,  he 
would  never  do  more  than  admit  that  "it  micht  be 
shorter."  If  you  called  him  to  rejoice  over  a  trout 
that  weighed  close  upon  two  pounds,  he  allowed 
that  it  was  "no  bad — but  there's  bigger  anes  i' 
the  loch  gin  we  cud  but  wile  them  oot."  And  at 
lunch-time,  when  we  turned  out  a  full  basket  of 
shining  fish  on  the  heather,  the  most  that  he  would 
say,  while  his  eyes  snapped  with  joy  and  pride, 
was,  "Aweel,  we  canna  complain,  the  day." 

Then  he  would  gather  an  armful  of  dried 
heather-stems  for  kindling,  and  dig  out  a  few  roots 
and  crooked  limbs  of  the  long-vanished  forest  from 
the  dry,  brown,  peaty  soil,  and  make  our  camp- 
fire  of  prehistoric  wood — just  for  the  pleasant, 
homelike  look  of  the  blaze — and  sit  down  beside  it 
to  eat  our  lunch.  Heat  is  the  least  of  the  benefits 
that  man  gets  from  fire.  It  is  the  sign  of  cheerful- 
118 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

ness  and  good  comradeship.  I  would  not  willingly 
satisfy  my  hunger,  even  in  a  summer  nooning, 
without  a  little  flame  burning  on  a  rustic  altar  to 
consecrate  and  enliven  the  feast.  When  the  bread 
and  cheese  were  finished  and  the  pipes  were  filled 
with  Virginia  tobacco,  Sandy  would  begin  to  tell 
me,  very  solemnly  and  respectfully,  about  the  mis- 
takes  I  had  made  in  the  fishing  that  day,  and 
mourn  over  the  fact  that  the  largest  fish  had  not 
been  hooked.  There  was  a  strong  strain  of  pessi- 
mism in  Sandy,  and  he  enjoyed  this  part  of  the 
sport  immensely. 

But  he  was  at  his  best  in  the  walk  home  through 
the  lingering  twilight,  when  the  murmur  of  the 
sea  trembled  through  the  air,  and  the  incense  of 
burning  peat  floated  up  from  the  cottages,  and 
the  stars  blossomed  one  by  one  in  the  pale-green 
sky.  Then  Sandy  dandered  on  at  his  ease  down 
the  hills,  and  discoursed  of  things  in  heaven  and 
earth.  He  was  an  unconscious  follower  of  the  the- 
ology of  the  Reverend  John  Jasper,  of  Richmond, 
Virginia,  and  rejected  the  Copernican  theory  of 
the  universe  as  inconsistent  with  the  history  of 
119 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

Joshua.  "Gin  the  sun  doesna  muve,"  said  he,  "what 
for  wad  Joshua  be  tellin*  him  to  stond  steel?  'A 
wad  suner  beleeve  there  was  a  mistak'  in  the 
veesible  heevens  than  ae  fault  in  the  Guid  Buik." 
Whereupon  we  held  long  discourse  of  astronomy 
and  inspiration;  but  Sandy  concluded  it  with  a 
philosophic  word  which  left  little  to  be  said: 
"Aweel,  yon  teelescope  is  a  wonnerful  deescovery; 
but  'a  dinna  think  the  less  o'  the  Baible." 

in. 

WHITE    HEATHER. 

Memory  is  a  capricious  and  arbitrary  creature. 
You  never  can  tell  what  pebble  she  will  pick  up 
from  the  shore  of  life  to  keep  among  her  treasures, 
or  what  inconspicuous  flower  of  the  field  she  will 
preserve  as  the  symbol  of 

"Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears." 

She  has  her  own  scale  of  values  for  these  memen- 
tos, and  knows  nothing  of  the  market  price  of 
precious  stones  or  the  costly  splendour  of  rare 
orchids.  The  thing  that  pleases  her  is  the  thing 
that  she  will  hold  fast.  And  yet  I  do  not  doubt 
120 


Memory  is  a  capricious  and  arbitrary  creature. 


A    HANDFUL   OF    HEATHER 

that  the  most  important  things  are  always  the  best 
remembered;  only  we  must  learn  that  the  real  im- 
portance of  what  we  see  and  hear  in  the  world  is 
to  be  measured  at  last  by  its  meaning,  its  signifi- 
cance, its  intimacy  with  the  heart  of  our  heart 
and  the  life  of  our  life.  And  when  we  find  a  little 
token  of  the  past  very  safely  and  imperishably 
kept  among  our  recollections,  we  must  believe  that 
memory  has  made  no  mistake.  It  is  because  that 
little  thing  has  entered  into  our  experience  most 
deeply,  that  it  stays  with  us  and  we  cannot  lose  it. 
You  have  half  forgotten  many  a  famous  scene 
that  you  travelled  far  to  look  upon.  You  cannot 
clearly  recall  the  sublime  peak  of  Mont  Blanc,  the 
roaring  curve  of  Niagara,  the  vast  dome  of  St. 
Peter's.  The  music  of  Patti's  crystalline  voice  has 
left  no  distinct  echo  in  your  remembrance,  and  the 
blossoming  of  the  century-plant  is  dimmer  than 
the  shadow  of  a  dream.  But  there  is  a  nameless 
valley  among  the  hills  where  you  can  still  trace 
every  curve  of  the  stream,  and  see  the  foam-bells 
floating  on  the  pool  below  the  bridge,  and  the  long 
moss  wavering  in  the  current.  There  is  a  rustic 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

song  of  a  girl  passing  through  the  fields  at  sun- 
set, that  still  repeats  its  far-off  cadence  in  your 
listening  ears.  There  is  a  small  flower  trembling 
on  its  stem  in  some  hidden  nook  beneath  the  open 
sky,  that  never  withers  through  all  the  changing 
years;  the  wind  passes  over  it,  but  it  is  not  gone 
— it  abides  forever  in  your  soul,  an  amaranthine 
blossom  of  beauty  and  truth. 

White  heather  is  not  an  easy  flower  to  find.  You 
may  look  for  it  among  the  highlands  for  a  day 
without  success.  And  when  it  is  discovered,  there 
is  little  outward  charm  to  commend  it.  It  lacks  the 
grace  of  the  dainty  bells  that  hang  so  abundantly 
from  the  Erica  Tetrallx9  and  the  pink  glow  of  the 
innumerable  blossoms  of  the  common  heather.  But 
then  it  is  a  symbol.  It  is  the  Scotch  Edelweiss.  It 
means  sincere  affection,  and  unselfish  love,  and  ten- 
der wishes  as  pure  as  prayers.  I  shall  always  re- 
member the  evening  when  I  found  the  white 
heather  on  the  moorland  above  Glen  Ericht.  Ort 
rather,  it  was  not  I  that  found  it  (for  I  have  lit- 
tle luck  in  the  discovery  of  good  omens,  and  have 
never  plucked  a  four-leaved  clover  in  my  life), 
iff 


\ 

A    HANDFUL   OF    HEATHER 

but  my  companion,  the  gentle  Mistress  of  the 
Glen,  whose  hair  was  as  white  as  the  tiny  bios* 
soms,  and  jet  whose  eyes  were  far  quicker  than 
mine  to  see  and  name  every  flower  that  bloomed  in 
those  lofty,  widespread  fields. 

Ericht  Water  is  formed  by  the  marriage  of  two 
streams,  one  flowing  out  of  Strath  Ardle  and  the 
other  descending  from  Cairn  Gowar  through  the 
long,  lonely  Pass  of  Glenshee.  The  Ericht  begins 
at  the  bridge  of  Cally,  and  its  placid,  beautiful 
glen,  unmarred  by  railway  or  factory,  reaches  al- 
most down  to  Blairgowrie.  On  the  southern  bank, 
but  far  above  the  water,  runs  the  high  road  to 
Braemar  and  the  Linn  of  Dee.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  nestling  among  the  trees,  is  the  low 
white  manor-house, 

"An  ancient  home  of  peace.9* 

It  is  a  place  where  one  who  had  been  wearied  and 
perchance  sore  wounded  in  the  battle  of  life  might 
well  desire  to  be  carried,  as  Arthur  to  the  island 
valley  of  Avflion,  for  rest  and  healing* 

I  have  no  thought  of  renewing  the  conflicts  and 
123 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

cares  that  filled  that  summer  with  sorrow.  There 
were  fightings  without  and  fears  within ;  there  was 
the  surrender  of  an  enterprise  that  had  been  cher- 
ished since  boyhood,  and  the  bitter  sense  of  irre- 
mediable weakness  that  follows  such  a  reverse; 
there  was  a  touch  of  that  wrath  with  those  we  love, 
which,  as  Coleridge  says, 

"Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain;9' 

flying  across  the  sea  from  these  troubles,  I  had 
found  my  old  comrade  of  merrier  days  sentenced 
to  death,  and  caught  but  a  brief  glimpse  of 
his  pale,  brave  face  as  he  went  away  into  exile. 
At  such  a  time  the  sun  and  the  light  and  the  moon 
and  the  stars  are  darkened,  and  the  clouds  return 
after  rain.  But  through  those  clouds  the  Mistress 
of  the  Glen  came  to  meet  me — a  stranger  till  then, 
but  an  appointed  friend,  a  minister  of  needed 
grace,  an  angel  of  quiet  comfort.  The  thick  mists 
of  rebellion,  mistrust,  and  despair  have  long  since 
rolled  away,  and  against  the  background  of  the 
hills  her  figure  stands  out  clearly,  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  fifty  years  ago,  with  the  snowy  hair 
1*4 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

gathered  close  beneath   her  widow's   cap,   and  a 
spray  of  white  heather  in  her  outstretched  hand. 

There  were  no  other  guests  in  the  house  by  the 
river  during  those  still  days  in  the  noontide  hush 
of  midsummer.  Every  morning,  while  the  Mistress 
was  busied  with  her  household  cares  and  letters,  I 
would  be  out  in  the  fields  hearing  the  lark  sing, 
and  watching  the  rabbits  as  they  ran  to  and  fro, 
scattering  the  dew  from. the  grass  in  a  glittering 
spray.  Or  perhaps  I  would  be  angling  down  the 
river,  with  the  swift  pressure  of  the  water  around 
my  knees,  and  an  inarticulate  current  of  cooling 
thoughts  flowing  on  and  on  through  my  brain  like 
the  murmur  of  the  stream.  Every  afternoon  there 
were  long  walks  with  the  Mistress  in  the  old- 
fashioned  garden,  where  wonderful  roses  were 
blooming;  or  through  the  dark,  fir-shaded  den 
where  the  wild  burn  dropped  down  to  join  the 
river;  or  out  upon  the  high  moor  under  the  wan- 
ing orange  sunset.  Every  night  there  were  lumi- 
nous and  restful  talks  beside  the  open  fire  in  the 
library,  when  the  words  came  clear  and  calm  from 
the  heart,  unperturbed  by  the  vain  desire  of  say- 
125 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

ing  brilliant  things,  which  turns  so  much  of  our 
conversation  into  a  combat  of  wits  instead  of  an 

interchange  of  thoughts.  Talk  like  this  is  possible 

i 
only  between  two.  The  arrival  of  a  third  person 

sets  the  lists  for  a  tournament,  and  offers  the  prize 
for  a  verbal  victory.  But  where  there  are  only 
two,  the  armour  is  laid  aside,  and  there  is  no  call 
to  thrust  and  parry. 

One  of  the  two  should  be  a  good  listener,  sym- 
pathetic, but  not  silent,  giving  confidence  in  order 
to  attract  it — and  of  this  art  a  woman  is  the  best 
master.  But  its  finest  secrets  do  not  come  to  her 
until  she  has  passed  beyond  the  uncertain  season 
of  compliments  and  conquests,  and  entered  into  the 
serenity  of  a  tranquil  age. 

What  is  this  foolish  thing  that  men  say  about 
the  impossibility  of  true  intimacy  and  converse 
between  the  young  and  the  old?  Hamerton,  for 
example,  in  his  book  on  Human  Intercourse, 
would  have  us  believe  that  a  difference  in  years  is 
a  barrier  between  hearts.  For  my  part,  I  have 
more  often  found  it  an  open  door,  and  a  security 
of  generous  and  tolerant  welcome  for  the  young 
126 


A    HANDFUL    OF    HEATHER 

soldier,  who  comes  in  tired  and  dusty  from  the 
battle-field,  to  tell  his  story  of  defeat  or  victory  in 
the  garden  of  still  thoughts  where  old  age  is  rest- 
ing in  the  peace  of  honourable  discharge.  I  like 
what  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  says  about  it  in  his 
essay  on  Talk  and  Talkers. 

"Not  only  is  the  presence  of  the  aged  in  itself 
remedial,  but  their  minds  are  stored  with  antidotes, 
wisdom's  simples,  plain  considerations  overlooked 
by  youth.  They  have  matter  to  communicate,  be 
they  never  so  stupid.  Their  talk  is  not  merely  lit- 
erature, it  is  great  literature;  classic  by  virtue  of 
the  speaker's  detachment;  studded,  like  a  book  of 
travel,  with  things  we  should  not  otherwise  have 
learnt.  .  .  .  Where  youth  agrees  with  age,  not 
where  they  differ,  wisdom  lies;  and  it  is  when 
the  young  disciple  finds  his  heart  to  beat  in  tune 
with  his  gray-haired  teacher's  that  a  lesson  may 
be  learned." 

The  conversation  of  the  Mistress  of  the  Glen 

shone  like  the  light  and  distilled  like  the  dew,  not 

only  by  virtue  of  what  she  said,  but  still  more  by 

virtue  of  what   she  was.   Her   face  was  a   good 

127 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

counsel  against  discouragement;  and  the  cheerful 
quietude  of  her  demeanour  was  a  rebuke  to  all  re- 
bellious, cowardly,  and  discontented  thoughts.  It 
was  not  the  striking  novelty  or  profundity  of  her 
commentary  on  life  that  made  it  memorable,  it  was 
simply  the  truth  of  what  she  said  and  the  gentle- 
ness with  which  she  said  it.  Epigrams  are  worth 
little  for  guidance  to  the  perplexed,  and  less  for 
comfort  to  the  wounded.  But  the  plain,  homely 
sayings  which  come  from  a  soul  that  has  learned 
the  lesson  of  patient  courage  in  the  school  of  real 
experience,  fall  upon  the  wound  like  drops  of  bal- 
sam, and  like  a  soothing  lotion  upon  the  eyes  smart- 
ing and  blinded  with  passion. 

She  spoke  of  those  who  had  walked  with  her 
long  ago  in  her  garden,  and  for  whose  sake,  now 
that  they  had  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light, 
every  flower  was  doubly  dear.  Would  it  be  a  true 
proof  of  loyalty  to  them  if  she  lived  gloomily  or 
despondently  because  they  were  away?  She  spoke 
of  the  duty  of  being  ready  to  welcome  happiness 
as  well  as  to  endure  pain,  and  of  the  strength  that 
endurance  wins  by  being  grateful  for  small  daily 
128 


A    HANDFUL   OF    HEATHER 

joys,  like  the  evening  light,  and  the  smell  of  roses, 
and  the  singing  of  birds.  She  spoke  of  the  faith 
that  rests  on  the  Unseen  Wisdom  and  Love  like  a 
child  on  its  mother's  breast,  and  of  the  melting 
away  of  doubts  in  the  warmth  of  an  effort  to  do 
some  good  in  the  world.  And  if  that  effort  has  con- 
flict, and  adventure,  and  confused  noise,  and  mis- 
takes, and  even  defeats  mingled  with  it,  in  the 
stormy  years  of  youth,  is  not  that  to  be  expected? 
The  burn  roars  and  leaps  in  the  den;  the  stream 
ehafes  and  frets  through  the  rapids  of  the  glen; 
the  river  does  not  grow  calm  and  smooth  until  it 
nears  the  sea.  Courage  is  a  virtue  that  the  young 
cannot  spare;  to  lose  it  is  to  grow  old  before  the 
time;  it  is  better  to  make  a  thousand  mistakes  and 
suffer  a  thousand  reverses  than  to  refuse  the  bat- 
tle. Resignation  is  the  final  courage  of  old  age; 
it  arrives  in  its  own  season;  and  it  is  a  good 
day  when  it  comes  to  us.  Then  there  are  no  more 
disappointments;  for  we  have  learned  that  it  is 
even  better  to  desire  the  things  that  we  have  than 
to  have  the  things  that  we  desire.  And  is  not  the 
best  of  all  our  hopes — the  hope  of  immortality— 

1*9 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

always  before  us?  How  can  we  be  dull  or  heavy 
while  we  have  that  new  experience  to  look  forward 
to?  It  will  be  the  most  joyful  of  all  our  travels  and 
adventures.  It  will  bring  us  our  best  acquaintances 
and  friendships.  But  there  is  only  one  way  to  get 
ready  for  immortality,  and  that  is  to  love  this  life, 
and  live  it  as  bravely  and  cheerfully  and  faithfully 
as  we  can. 

So.  my  gentle  teacher  with  the  silver  hair  showed 
me  the  treasures  of  her  ancient,  simple  faith;  and 
I  felt  that  no  sermons,  nor  books,  nor  arguments 
can  strengthen  the  doubting  heart  so  deeply  as 
just  to  come  into  touch  with  a  soul  which 
has  proved  the  truth  of  that  plain  religion  whose 
highest  philosophy  is  "Trust  in  the  Lord  and  do 
good."  At  the  end  of  the  evening  the  household 
was  gathered  for  prayers,  and  the  Mistress 
kneeled  among  her  servants,  leading  them,  in  her 
soft  Scottish  accent,  through  the  old  familiar  pe* 
titions  for  pardon  for  the  errors  of  the  day,  and 
refreshing  sleep  through  the  night  and  strength 
for  the  morrow.  It  is  good  to  be  in  a  land  where 
the  people  are  not  ashamed  to  pray.  I  have 
130 


A    HANDFUL   OF    HEATHER 

shared  the  blessing  of  Catholics  at  their  table  in 
lowly  huts  among  the  mountains  of  the  Tyrol, 
and  knelt  with  Covenanters  at  their  household 
altar  in  the  glens  of  Scotland;  and  all  around  the 
world,  where  the  spirit  of  prayer  is,  there  is  peace. 
The  genius  of  the  Scotch  has  made  many  con- 
tributions to  literature,  but  none  I  think,  more 
precious,  and  none  that  comes  closer  to  the  heart, 
than  the  prayer  which  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
wrote  for  his  family  in  distant  Samoa,  the  night 
before  he  died:-?- 

"We  beseech  thee,  "Lord,  to  behold  u*  with  favour, 
folk  of  many  families  and  nations,  gathered  together 
in  the  peace  of  this  roof:  weak  men  and  women  sub- 
sisting  under  the  covert  of  thy  patience.  Be  patient 
still;  suffer  us  yet  a  while  longer — with  our  broken 
promises  of  good,  with  our  idle  endeavours  against 
evil — suffer  us  a  while  longer  to  endure,  and  (if  it 
may  be)  help  us  to  do  better.  Bless  to  us  our  extraor- 
dinary mercies;  if  the  day  come  when  these  must  be 
taken,  have  us  play  the  man  under  affliction.  Be  with 
our  friends,  be  with  ourselves.  Go  with  each  of  us  to 
rest;  if  any  awake,  temper  to  them  the  dark  hours  of 
181 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

watching;  and  when  the  day  returns  to  us — our  sun 
and  comforter — call  us  with  morning  faces,  eager  to 
labour,  eager  to  be  happy,  if  happiness  shall  be  our 
portion,  and,  if  the  day  be  marked  to  sorrow,  strong 
to  endure  it.  We  thank  thee  and  praise  thee;  andf 
in  the  words  of  Him  to  whom  this  day  is  sacred,  close 
our  oblation/* 

The  man  who  made  that  kindly  human  prayer 
knew  the  meaning  of  white  heather.  And  I  dare 
to  hope  that  I  too  have  known  something  of  its 
meaning,  since  that  evening  when  the  Mistress  of 
the  Glen  picked  the  spray  and  gave  it  to  me  on 
the  lonely  moor.  "And  now,"  she  said,  "you  will 
be  going  home  across  the  sea;  and  you  have  been 
welcome  here,  but  it  is  time  that  you  should  go, 
for  there  is  the  place  where  your  real  duties  and 
troubles  and  joys  are  waiting  for  you.  And  if  you 
have  left  any  misunderstandings  behind  you,  you 
will  try  to  clear  them  up ;  and  if  there  have  been 
any  quarrels,  you  will  heal  them.  Carry  this  little 
flower  with  you.  It  *s  not  the  bonniest  blossom  in 
Scotland,  but  it 's  the  dearest,  for  the  message  that 
it  brings.  And  you  will  remember  that  love  is  not 
132 


A    HANDFUL   OF    HEATHER 

getting,  but  giving ;  not  a  wild  dream  of  pleasure, 
and  a  madness  of  desire — oh  no,  love  is  not  that 
• — it  is  goodness,  and  honour,  and  peace,  and  pure 
living — yes,  love  is  that;  and  it  is  the  best  thing 
in  the  world,  and  the  thing  that  lives  longest. 
And  that  is  what  I  am  wishing  for  you  and  yours 
with  this  bit  of  white  heather." 


183 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE    FROM    I 
HORSE-YACHT 


1  Dr.  Paley  wot  ardently  attached  to  this  amusement  /  so  much  so,  that 
when  the  Bishop  of  Durham,  inquired  of  him  when  one  of  his  most  impor- 
tant works  would  be  finished,  he  said,  with  great  simplicity  and  good 
humour,  'My  Lord,  I  shall  work  steadily  at  it  when  the  fly-fishing  i 
toorer.'  "— SIB  HUMPHBY  DAVY  :  Salmonia. 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE    FROM    A 
HORSE-YACHT 

I.  HE  boundary  line  between  the  Province  of 
Quebec  and  New  Brunswick,  for  a  considerable 
part  of  its  course,  resembles  the  name  of  the  poet 
Keats;  it  is  "writ  in  water."  But  like  his  fame,  it 
is  water  that  never  fails, — the  limpid  current  of 
the  river  Ristigouche. 

The  railway  crawls  over  it  on  a  long  bridge  at 
Metapedia,  and  you  are  dropped  in  the  darkness 
somewhere  between  midnight  and  dawn.  When 
you  open  your  window-shutters  the  next  morn- 
ing, you  see  that  the  village  is  a  disconsolate  ham- 
let, scattered  along  the  track  as  if  it  had  been 
shaken  by  chance  from  an  open  freight-car;  it 
consists  of  twenty  houses,  three  shops,  and  a  dis- 
couraged church  perched  upon  a  little  hillock  like 
a  solitary  mourner  on  the  anxious  seat.  The  one 
comfortable  and  prosperous  feature  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  Metapedia  is  the  house  of  the  Risti- 
1S7 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

gouche  Salmon  Club — an  old-fashioned  mansion, 
with  broad,  white  piazza,  looking  over  rich  mead- 
ow-lands. Here  it  was  that  I  found  my  friend 
Favonius,  president  of  solemn  societies,  pillar  of 
church  and  state,  ingenuously  arrayed  in  gray 
knickerbockers,  a  flannel  shirt,  and  a  soft  hat, 
waiting  to  take  me  on  his  horse-yacht  for  a  voy- 
age up  the  river. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  horse-yacht?  Sometimes  it 
is  called  a  scow;  but  that  sounds  common.  Some- 
times it  is  called  a  house-boat ;  but  that  is  too  Eng- 
lish. What  does  it  profit  a  man  to  have  a  whole 
dictionary  full  of  language  at  his  service,  unless 
he  can  invent  a  new  and  suggestive  name  for  his 
friend's  pleasure-craft?  The  foundation  of  the 
horse-yacht — if  a  thing  that  floats  may  be  called 
fundamental — is  a  flat-bottomed  boat,  some  fifty 
feet  long  and  ten  feet  wide,  with  a  draft  of  about 
eight  inches.  The  deck  is  open  for  fifteen  feet  aft 
of  the  place  where  the  bowsprit  ought  to  be;  be- 
hind that  it  is  completely  covered  by  a  house, 
cabin,  cottage,  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it, 
with  straight  sides  and  a  peaked  roof  of  a  very 
138 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

early  Gothic  pattern.  Looking  in  at  the  door  you 
see,  first  of  all,  two  cots,  one  on  either  side  of  the 
passage;  then  an  open  space  with  a  dining-table, 
a  stove,  and  some  chairs;  beyond  that  a  pantry 
with  shelves,  and  a  great  chest  for  provisions.  A 
door  at  the  back  opens  into  the  kitchen,  and  from 
that  another  door  opens  into  a  sleeping-room  for 
the  boatmen.  A  huge  wooden  tiller  curves  over  the 
stern  of  the  boat,  and  the  helmsman  stands  upon 
the  kitchen-roof.  Two  canoes  are  floating  behind, 
holding  back,  at  the  end  of  their  long  tow-ropes, 
as  if  reluctant  to  follow  so  clumsy  a  leader. 
This  is  an  accurate  description  of  the  horse-yacht. 
If  necessary  it  could  be  sworn  to  before  a  notary 
public.  But  I  am  perfectly  sure  that  you  might 
read  this  page  through  without  skipping  a  word, 
and  if  you  had  never  seen  the  creature  with  your 
own  eyes,  you  would  have  no  idea  how  absurd  it 
looks  and  how  comfortable  it  is. 

While  we  were  stowing  away  our  trunks  and 

bags   under  the   cots,   and   making  an  equitable 

division  of  the  hooks  upon  the  walls,  the  motive 

power  of  the  yacht  stood  patiently  upon  the  shore, 

139 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

stamping  a  hoof,  now  and  then,  or  shaking  a 
shaggy  head  in  mild  protest  against  the  flies. 
Three  more  pessimistic-looking  horses  I  never  saw. 
They  were  harnessed  abreast,  and  fastened  by  a 
prodigious  tow-rope  to  a  short  post  in  the  middle 
of  the  forward  deck.  Their  driver  was  a  truculent, 
brigandish,  bearded  old  fellow  in  long  boots,  a  blue 
flannel  shirt,  and  a  black  sombrero.  He  sat  upon 
the  middle  horse,  and  some  wild  instinct  of  colour 
had  made  him  tie  a  big  red  handkerchief  around 
his  shoulders,  so  that  the  eye  of  the  beholder  took 
delight  in  him.  He  posed  like  a  bold,  bad  robber- 
chief.  But  in  point  of  fact  I  believe  he  was  the 
mildest  and  most  inoffensive  of  men.  We  never 
heard  him  say  anything  except  at  a  distance,  to 
his  horses,  and  we  did  not  inquire  what  that  was. 
Well,  as  I  have  said,  we  were  haggling  cour- 
teously over  those  hooks  in  the  cabin,  when  the 
boat  gave  a  lurch.  The  bow  swung  out  into  the 
stream.  There  was  a  scrambling  and  clattering  of 
iron  horse-shoes  on  the  rough  shingle  of  the  bank ; 
and  when  we  looked  out  of  doors,  our  house  was 
moving  up  the  river  with  the  boat  under  it. 
140 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

The  Ristigouche  is  a  noble  stream,  stately  and 
swift  and  strong.  It  rises  among  the  dense  forests 
in  the  northern  part  of  New  Brunswick — a  moist 
upland  region,  of  never-failing  springs  and  in- 
numerous  lakes — and  pours  a  flood  of  clear,  cold 
water  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  northward  and 
eastward  through  the  hills  into  the  head  of  the 
Bay  of  Chaleurs.  There  are  no  falls  in  its  course, 
but  rapids  everywhere.  It  is  steadfast  but  not  im- 
petuous, quick  but  not  turbulent,  resolute  and 
eager  in  its  desire  to  get  to  the  sea,  like  the  life 
of  a  man  who  has  a  purpose 

"Too  great  for  haste,  too  high  for  rivalry." 
The  wonder  is  where  all  the  water  comes  from. 
But  the  river  is  fed  by  more  than  six  thousand 
square  miles  of  territory.  From  both  sides  the  lit- 
tle brooks  come  dashing  in  with  their  supply.  At 
intervals  a  larger  stream,  reaching  away  back 
among  the  mountains  like  a  hand  with  many  fin- 
gers to  gather 

"The  filtered  tribute  of  the  rough  woodland" 
'    delivers  its  generous    offering  to  the  main  cur- 
rent. 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

The  names  of  the  chief  tributaries  of  the  Ris- 
tigouche  are  curious.  There  is  the  headstrong 
Metapedia,  and  the  crooked  Upsalquitch,  and  the 
Patapedia,  and  the  Quatawamkedgwick.  These  are 
words  at  which  the  tongue  balks  at  first,  but  you 
soon  grow  used  to  them  and  learn  to  take  any- 
thing of  five  syllables  with  a  rush,  as  a  hunter 
takes  a  five-barred  gate,  trusting  to  fortune  that 
you  will  come  down  with  the  accent  in  the  right 
place. 

For  six  or  seven  miles  above  Metapedia  the  river 
has  a  breadth  of  about  two  hundred  yards,  and 
the  valley  slopes  back  rather  gently  to  the  moun- 
tains on  either  side.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  culti- 
vated land,  and  scattered  farm-houses  appear.  The 
soil  is  excellent.  But  it  is  like  a  pearl  cast  before 
an  obstinate,  unfriendly  climate.  Late  frosts  pro- 
long the  winter.  Early  frosts  curtail  the  summer. 
The  only  safe  crops  are  grass,  oats,  and  potatoes. 
And  for  half  the  year  all  the  cattle  must  be  housed 
and  fed  to  keep  them  alive.  This  lends  a  melan- 
choly aspect  to  agriculture.  Most  of  the  farmers 
look  as  if  they  had  never  seen  better  days.  With 
14* 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

few  exceptions  they  are  what  a  New  Englander 
would  call  "slack-twisted  and  shiftless."  Their 
barns  are  pervious  to  the  weather,  and  their  fences 
fail  to  connect.  Sleds  and  ploughs  rust  together 
beside  the  house,  and  chickens  scratch  up  the 
front-door  yard.  In  truth,  the  people  have  been 
somewhat  demoralised  by  the  conflicting  claims  of 
different  occupations;  hunting  in  the  fall,  lumber- 
ing in  the  winter  and  spring,  and  working  for  the 
American  sportsmen  in  the  brief  angling  season, 
are  so  much  more  attractive  and  offer  so  much 
larger  returns  of  ready  money,  that  the  tedious 
toil  of  farming  is  neglected.  But  for  all  that,  in 
the  bright  days  of  midsummer,  these  green  fields 
sloping  down  to  the  water,  and  pastures  high  up 
among  the  trees  on  the  hillsides,  look  pleasant 
from  a  distance,  and  give  an  inhabited  air  to  the 
landscape. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Upsalquitch  we  passed  the 
first  of  the  fishing-lodges.  It  belongs  to  a  sage 
angler  from  Albany  who  saw  the  beauty  of  the 
situation,  years  ago,  and  built  a  habitation  to 
match  it.  Since  that  time  a  number  of  gentlemen 
143 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

have  bought  land  fronting  on  good  pools,  and  put 
up  little  cottages  of  a  less  classical  style  than 
Charles  Cotton's  "Fisherman's  Retreat"  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Dove,  but  better  suited  to  this 
wild  scenery,  and  more  convenient  to  live  in.  The 
prevailing  pattern  is  a  very  simple  one;  it  con- 
sists of  a  broad  piazza  with  a  small  house  in  the 
middle  of  it.  The  house  bears  about  the  same  pro- 
portion to  the  piazza  that  the  crown  of  a  Gains- 
borough hat  does  to  the  brim.  And  the  cost  of  the 
edifice  is  to  the  cost  of  the  land  as  the  first  price 
of  a  share  in  a  bankrupt  railway  is  to  the  assess- 
ments which  follow  the  reorganisation.  All  the 
best  points  have  been  sold,  and  real  estate  on  the 
Ristigouche  has  been  bid  up  to  an  absurd  figure. 
In  fact,  the  river  is  over-populated  and  probably 
over-fished.  But  we  could  hardly  find  it  in  our 
hearts  to  regret  this,  for  it  made  the  upward  trip 
a  very  sociable  one.  At  every  lodge  that  was  open, 
Favonius  (who  knows  everybody)  had  a  friend, 
and  we  must  slip  ashore  in  a  canoe  to  leave  the 
mail  and  refresh  the  inner  man. 

An  angler,  like  an  Arab,  regards  hospitality  as 
144 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

a  religious  duty.  There  seems  to  be  something  in 
the  craft  which  inclines  the  heart  to  kindness  and 
good-fellowship.  Few  anglers  have  I  seen  who  were 
not  pleasant  to  meet,  and  ready  to  do  a  good  turn 
to  a  fellow-fisherman  with  the  gift  of  a  killing  fly 
or  the  loan  of  a  rod.  Not  their  own  particular 
and  well-proved  favourite,  of  course,  for  that  is  a 
treasure  which  no  decent  man  would  borrow;  but 
with  that  exception  the  best  in  their  store  is  at  the 
service  of  an  accredited  brother.  One  of  the  Risti- 
gouche  proprietors  I  remember,  whose  name  be- 
spoke him  a  descendant  of  Caledonia's  patron 
saint.  He  was  fishing  in  front  of  his  own  door 
when  we  came  up,  with  our  splashing  horses, 
through  the  pool;  but  nothing  would  do  but  he 
must  up  anchor  and  have  us  away  with  him  into 
the  house  to  taste  his  good  cheer.  And  there  were 
his  daughters  with  their  books  and  needlework, 
and  the  photographs  which  they  had  taken  pinned 
up  on  the  wooden  walls,  among  Japanese  fans  and 
bits  of  bright-coloured  stuff  in  which  the  soul  of 
woman  delights,  and,  in  a  passive,  silent  way,  the 
soul  of  man  also.  Then,  after  we  had  discussed  the 
145 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

year's  fishing,  and  the  mysteries  of  the  camera, 
and  the  deep  question  of  what  makes  some  nega- 
tives too  thin  and  others  too  thick,  we  must  go  out 
to  see  the  big  salmon  which  one  of  the  ladies  had 
caught  a  few  days  before,  and  the  large  trout 
swimming  about  in  their  cold  spring.  It  seemed  to 
me,  as  we  went  on  our  way,  that  there  could 
hardly  be  a  more  wholesome  and  pleasant  summer- 
life  for  well-bred  young  women  than  this,  or  two 
amusements  more  innocent  and  sensible  than  pho- 
tography and  fly-fishing. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  horse-yacht  as  a 
vehicle  of  travel  is  not  remarkable  in  point  of  speed. 
Three  miles  an  hour  is  not  a  very  rapid  rate  of 
motion.  But  then,  if  you  are  not  in  a  hurry,  why 
should  you  care  to  make  haste? 

The  wild  desire  to  be  forever  racing  against  old 
Father  Time  is  one  of  the  kill- joys  of  modern  life. 
That  ancient  traveller  is  sure  to  beat  you  in  the 
long  run,  and  as  long  as  you  are  trying  to  rival 
him,  he  will  make  your  life  a  burden.  But  if  you 
will  only  acknowledge  his  superiority  and  profess 
that  you  do  not  approve  of  racing  after  all,  he 
146 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

will  settle  down  quietly  beside  you  and  jog  along 
like  the  most  companionable  of  creatures.  That  is  a 
pleasant  pilgrimage  in  which  the  journey  itself  is 
part  of  the  destination. 

As  soon  as  one  learns  to  regard  the  horse-yacht 
as  a  sort  of  moving  house,  it  appears  admirable. 
There  is  no  dust  or  smoke,  no  rumble  of  wheels, 
or  shriek  of  whistles.  You  are  gliding  along  stead- 
ily through  an  ever-green  world;  skirting  the 
silent  hills;  passing  from  one  side  of  the  river  to 
the  other  when  the  horses  have  to  swim  the  cur- 
rent to  find  a  good  foothold  on  the  bank.  You  are 
on  the  water,  but  not  at  its  mercy,  for  your  craft 
is  not  disturbed  by  the  heaving  of  rude  waves,  and 
the  serene  inhabitants  do  not  say  "I  am  sick." 
There  is  room  enough  to  move  about  without  fall- 
ing overboard.  You  may  sleep,  or  read,  or  write 
in  your  cabin,  or  sit  upon  the  floating  piazza  in 
an  arm-chair  and  smoke  the  pipe  of  peace,  while 
the  cool  breeze  blows  in  your  face  and  the  musical 
waves  go  singing  down  to  the  sea. 

There  was  one  feature  about  the  boat,  which 
commended  itself  very  strongly  to  my  mind.  It 
147 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

was  possible  to  stand  upon  the  forward  deck  and 
do  a  little  trout-fishing  in  motion.  By  watching 
your  chance,  when  the  corner  of  a  good  pool  was 
within  easy  reach,  you  could  send  out  a  hasty  line 
and  cajole  a  sea-trout  from  his  hiding-place.  It  is 
true  that  the  tow-ropes  and  the  post  made  the 
back  cast  a  little  awkward ;  and  the  wind  sometimes 
blew  the  flies  up  on  the  roof  of  the  cabin;  but 
then,  with  patience  and  a  short  line  the  thing 
could  be  done.  I  remember  a  pair  of  good  trout 
that  rose  together  just  as  we  were  going  through 
a  boiling  rapid;  and  it  tried  the  strength  of  my 
split-bamboo  rod  to  bring  those  fish  to  the  net 
against  the  current  and  the  motion  of  the  boat. 

When  nightfall  approached  we  let  go  the  anch- 
or (to  wit,  a  rope  tied  to  a  large  stone  on  the 
shore),  ate  our  dinner  "with  gladness  and  single- 
ness of  heart"  like  the  early  Christians,  and  slept 
the  sleep  of  the  just,  lulled  by  the  murmuring  of 
the  waters,  and  defended  from  the  insidious  attacks 
of  the  mosquito  by  the  breeze  blowing  down  the 
river  and  the  impregnable  curtains  over  our  beds. 
At  daybreak,  long  before  Favonius  and  I  had  fin- 
148 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

ished  our  dreams,  we  were  under  way  again;  and 
when  the  trampling  of  the  horses  on  some  rocky 
shore  wakened  us,  we  could  see  the  steep  hills  glid- 
ing past  the  windows  and  hear  the  rapids  dashing 
against  the  side  of  the  boat,  and  it  seemed  as  if 
we  were  still  dreaming. 

At  Cross  Point,  where  the  river  makes  a  long 
loop  around  a  narrow  mountain,  thin  as  a  saw  and 
crowned  on  its  jagged  edge  by  a  rude  wooden 
cross,  we  stopped  for  an  hour  to  try  the  fishing. 
It  was  here  that  I  hooked  two  mysterious  creatures, 
each  of  which  took  the  fly  when  it  was  below  the 
surface,  pulled  for  a  few  moments  in  a  sullen  way 
and  then  apparently  melted  into  nothingness.  It 
will  always  be  a  source  of  regret  to  me  that  the 
nature  of  these  fish  must  remain  unknown.  While 
they  were  on  the  line  it  was  the  general  opin- 
ion that  they  were  heavy  trout;  but  no  sooner  had 
they  departed,  than  I  became  firmly  convinced, 
in  accordance  with  a  psychological  law  which  holds 
good  all  over  the  world,  that  they  were  both  enor- 
mous salmon.  Even  the  Turks  have  a  proverb  which 
says,  "Every  fish  that  escapes  appears  larger  than 
149 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

it  is."  No  one  can  alter  that  conviction,  because 
no  one  can  logically  refute  it.  Our  best  blessings, 
like  our  largest  fish,  always  depart  before  we  have 
time  to  measure  them. 

The  Slide  Pool  is  in  the  wildest  and  most  pictu- 
resque part  of  the  river,  about  thirty-five  miles 
above  Metapedia.  The  stream,  flowing  swiftly 
down  a  stretch  of  rapids  between  forest-clad  hills, 
runs  straight  toward  the  base  of  an  eminence  so 
precipitous  that  the  trees  can  hardly  find  a  foot- 
hold upon  it,  and  seem  to  be  climbing  up  in  haste 
on  either  side  of  the  long  slide  which  leads  to  the 
summit.  The  current,  barred  by  the  wall  of  rock, 
takes  a  great  sweep  to  the  right,  dashing  up  at 
first  in  angry  waves,  then  falling  away  in  oily 
curves  and  eddies,  until  at  last  it  sleeps  in  a  black 
deep,  apparently  almost  motionless,  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill.  It  was  here,  on  the  upper  edge  of  the 
stream,  opposite  to  the  slide,  that  we  brought  our 
floating  camp  to  anchor  for  some  days.  What  does 
one  do  in  such  a  watering-place? 

Let  us  take  a  "specimen  day."  It  is  early  morn- 
ing, or  to  be  more  precise,  about  eight  of  tbe 
150 


THE    R1STIGOUCHE 

cfock,  and  the  white  fog  is  just  beginning  to  curl 
and  drift  away  from  the  surface  of  the  river. 
Sooner  than  this  it  would  be  idle  to  go  out.  The 
preternaturally  early  bird  in  his  greedy  haste  may 
catch  the  worm;  but  the  salmon  never  take  the  fly 
until  the  fog  has  lifted;  and  in  this  the  scientific 
angler  sees,  with  gratitude,  a  remarkable  adapta- 
tion of  the  laws  of  nature  to  the  tastes  of  man.  The 
canoes  are  waiting  at  the  front  door.  We  step  into 
them  and  push  off,  Favonius  going  up  the  stream  a 
couple  of  miles  to  the  mouth  of  the  Patapedia, 
and  I  down,  a  little  shorter  distance,  to  the  famous 
Indian  House  Pool.  The  slim  boat  glides  easily  on 
the  current,  with  a  smooth  buoyant  motion,  quick- 
ened by  the  strokes  of  the  paddles  in  the  bow  and 
the  stern.  We  pass  around  two  curves  in  the  river 
and  find  ourselves  at  the  head  of  the  pool.  Here 
the  man  in  the  stern  drops  the  anchor,  just  on  the 
edge  of  the  bar  where  the  rapid  breaks  over 
into  the  deeper  water.  The  long  rod  is  lifted; 
the  fly  unhooked  from  the  reel;  a  few  feet  of 
line  pulled  through  the  rings,  and  the  fishing 
begins. 

151 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

First  cast,* — to  the  right,  straight  across  the 
stream,  about  twenty  feet:  the  current  carries  the 
fly  down  with  a  semicircular  sweep,  until  it  comes 
in  line  with  the  bow  of  the  canoe.  Second  cast, — to 
the  left,  straight  across  the  stream,  with  the  same 
motion:  the  semicircle  is  completed,  and  the  fly 
hangs  quivering  for  a  few  seconds  at  the  lowest 
point  of  the  arc.  Three  or  four  feet  of  line  are 
drawn  from  the  reel.  Third  cast  to  the  right; 
fourth  cast  to  the  left.  Then  a  little  more  line. 
And  so,  with  widening  half-circles,  the  water  is 
covered,  gradually  and  very  carefully,  until  at 
length  the  angler  has  as  much  line  out  as  his  two- 
handed  rod  can  lift  and  swing.  Then  the  first 
"drop'*  is  finished;  the  man  in  the  stern  quietly 
pulls  up  the  anchor  and  lets  the  boat  drift  down 
a  few  yards;  the  same  process  is  repeated  on  the 
second  drop;  and  so  on,  until  the  end  of  the  run 
is  reached  and  the  fly  has  passed  over  all  the  good 
water.  This  seems  like  a  very  regular  and  some- 
what mechanical  proceeding  as  one  describes  it,  but 
in  the  performance  it  is  rendered  intensely  inter- 
Ifif 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

esting  by  the  knowledge  that  at  any  moment  it  is 
liable  to  be  interrupted. 

This  morning  the  interruption  comes  early.  At 
the  first  cast  of  the  second  drop,  before  the  fly 
has  fairly  lit,  a  great  flash  of  silver  darts  from 
the  waves  close  by  the  boat.  Usually  a  salmon  takes 
the  fly  rather  slowly,  carrying  it  under  water  be- 
fore he  seizes  it  in  his  mouth.  But  this  one  is  in  no 
mood  for  deliberation.  He  has  hooked  himself  with 
a  rush,  and  the  line  goes  whirring  madly  from  the 
reel  as  he  races  down  the  pool.  Keep  the  point  of 
the  rod  low;  he  must  have  his  own  way  now.  Up 
with  the  anchor  quickly,  and  send  the  canoe  after 
him,  bowman  and  sternman  paddling  with  swift 
strokes.  He  has  reached  the  deepest  water ;  he  stops 
to  think  what  has  happened  to  him ;  we  have  passed 
around  and  below  him;  and  now,  with  the  current 
to  help  us,  we  can  begin  to  reel  in.  Lift  the  point 
of  the  rod,  with  a  strong,  steady  pull.  Put  the 
force  of  both  arms  into  it.  The  tough  wood  will 
stand  the  strain.  The  fish  must  be  moved ;  he  must 
come  to  the  boat  if  he  is  ever  to  be  landed.  He 
153 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

gives  a  little  and  yields  slowly  to  the  pressure, 
Then  suddenly  he  gives  too  much,  and  runs  straight 
toward  us.  Reel  in  now  as  swiftly  as  possible,  or 
else  he  will  get  a  slack  on  the  line  and  escape.  Now 
he  stops,  shakes  his  head  from  side  to  side,  and 
darts  away  again  across  the  pool,  leaping  high  out 
of  water.  Don't  touch  the  reel!  Drop  the  point  of 
the  rod  quickly,  for  if  he  falls  on  the  leader  he 
will  surely  break  it.  Another  leap,  and  -  another ! 
Truly  he  is  "a  merry  one,"  and  it  will  go  hard 
with  us  to  hold  him.  But  those  great  leaps  have 
exhausted  his  strength,  and  now  he  follows  the 
rod  more  easily.  The  men  push  the  boat  back 
to  the  shallow  side  of  the  pool  until  it  touches 
lightly  on  the  shore.  The  fish  comes  slowly  in, 
fighting  a  little  and  making  a  few  short  runs;  he 
is  tired  and  turns  slightly  on  his  side;  but  even 
yet  he  is  a  heavy  weight  on  the  line,  and  it  seems 
a  wonder  that  so  slight  a  thing  as  the  leader  can 
guide  and  draw  him.  Now  he  is  close  to  the  boat. 
The  boatman  steps  out  on  a  rock  with  his  gaff. 
Steadily  now  and  slowly,  lift  the  rod,  bending  it 
backward.  A  quick  sure  stroke  of  the  steel!  a 
154 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

great  splash!  and  the  salmon  is  lifted  upon  the 
shore.  How  he  flounces  about  on  the  stones.  Give 
him  the  coup  de  grace  at  once,  for  his  own  sake 
as  well  as  for  ours.  And  now  look  at  him,  as  he  lies 
there  on  the  green  leaves.  Broad  back ;  small  head 
tapering  to  a  point;  clean,  shining  sides  with  a 
few  black  spots  on  them ;  it  is  a  fish  fresh-run  from 
the  sea,  in  perfect  condition,  and  that  is  the  rea- 
son why  he  has  given  such  good  sport. 

We  must  try  for  another  before  we  go  back. 
Again  fortune  favours  us,  and  at  eleven  o'clock 
we  pole  up  the  river  to  the  camp  with  two  good 
salmon  in  the  canoe.  Hardly  have  we  laid  them 
away  in  the  ice-box,  when  Favonius  comes  drop- 
ping down  from  Patapedia  with  three  fish,  one  of 
them  a  twenty-four  pounder.  And  so  the  morn- 
ing's work  is  done. 

In  the  evening,  after  dinner,  it  was  our  custom 
to  sit  out  on  the  deck,  watching  the  moonlight  as 
it  fell  softly  over  the  black  hills  and  changed  the 
river  into  a  pale  flood  of  rolling  gold.  The  fra- 
grant wreaths  of  smoke  floated  lazily  away  on  the 
faint  breeze  of  night.  There  was  no  sound  save 
155 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  rushing  of  the  water  and  the  crackling  of  the 
camp-fire  on  the  shore.  We  talked  of  many  things 
in  the  heavens  above,  and  the  earth  beneath,  and 
the  waters  under  the  earth;  touching  lightly  here 
and  there  as  the  spirit  of  vagrant  converse  led  us. 
Favonius  has  the  good  sense  to  talk  about  himself 
occasionally  and  tell  his  own  experience.  The  man 
who  will  not  do  that  must  always  be  a  dull  com- 
panion. Modest  egoism  is  the  salt  of  conversation : 
you  do  not  want  too  much  of  it;  but  if  it  is  alto- 
gether omitted,  everything  tastes  flat.  I  remember 
well  the  evening  when  he  told  me  the  story  of  the 
Sheep  of  the  Wilderness. 

"I  was  ill  that  summer,"  said  he,  "and  the  doc- 
tor had  ordered  me  to  go  into  the  woods,  but  on 
no  account  to  go  without  plenty  of  fresh  meat, 
which  was  essential  to  my  recovery.  So  we  set  out 
into  the  wild  country  north  of  Georgian  Bay,  tak- 
ing a  live  sheep  with  us  in  order  to  be  sure  that 
the  doctor's  prescription  might  be  faithfully  fol- 
lowed. It  was  a  young  and  innocent  little  beast, 
curling  itself  up  at  my  feet  in  the  canoe,  and  fol- 
lowing me  about  on  shore  like  a  dog.  I  gathered 
156 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

grass  every  day  to  feed  it,  and  carried  it  in  my 
arms  over  the  rough  portages.  It  ate  out  of  my 
hand  and  rubbed  its  woolly  head  against  my  leg- 
gings. To  my  dismay,  I  found  that  I  was  begin- 
ning to  love  it  for  its  own  sake  and  without  any 
ulterior  motives.  The  thought  of  killing  and  eating 
it  became  more  and  more  painful  to  me,  until  at 
length  the  fatal  fascination  was  complete,  and  my 
trip  became  practically  an  exercise  of  devotion  to 
that  sheep.  I  carried  it  everywhere  and  ministered 
fondly  to  its  wants.  Not  for  the  world  would  I 
have  alluded  to  mutton  in  its  presence.  And  when 
we  returned  to  civilisation  I  parted  from  the 
creature  with  sincere  regret  and  the  consciousness 
that  I  had  humoured  my  affections  at  the  expense 
of  my  digestion.  The  sheep  did  not  give  me  so 
much  as  a  look  of  farewell,  but  fell  to  feeding  on 
the  grass  beside  the  farm-house  with  an  air  of 
placid  triumph." 

After  hearing  this  touching  tale,   I  was  glad 

that  no  great  intimacy  had  sprung  up  between 

Favonius  and  the  chickens  which  we  carried  in  a 

coop  on  the  forecastle  head,  for  there  is  no  telling 

157 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

what  restrictions  his  tender-heartedness  might  have 
laid  upon  our  larder.  But  perhaps  a  chicken  would 
not  have  given  such  an  opening  for  misplaced 
affection  as  a  sheep.  There  is  a  great  difference  in 
animals  in  this  respect.  I  certainly  never  heard  of 
any  one  falling  in  love  with  a  salmon  in  such  a 
way  as  to  regard  it  as  a  fond  companion.  And  this 
may  be  one  reason  why  no  sensible  person  who  has 
tried  fishing  has  ever  been  able  to  see  any  cruelty 
in  it. 

Suppose  the  fish  is  not  caught  by  an  angler, 
what  is  his  alternative  fate?  He  will  either  perish 
miserably  in  the  struggles  of  the  crowded  net,  or 
die  of  old  age  and  starvation  like  the  long,  lean 
stragglers  which  are  sometimes  found  in  the  shal- 
low pools,  or  be  devoured  by  a  larger  fish,  or  torn 
to  pieces  by  a  seal  or  an  otter.  Compared  with  any 
of  these  miserable  deaths,  the  fate  of  a  salmon  who 
is  hooked  in  a  clear  stream  and  after  a  glorious 
fight  receives  the  happy  despatch  at  the  moment 
when  he  touches  the  shore,  is  a  sort  of  euthanasia. 
And,  since  the  fish  was  made  to  be  man's  food,  the 
158 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

angler  who  brings  him  to  the  table  of  destiny  in 
the  cleanest,  quickest,  kindest  way  is,  in  fact,  his 
benefactor. 

There  were  some  days,  however,  when  our  benev- 
olent intentions  toward  the  salmon  were  frustrated ; 
mornings  when  they  refused  to  rise,  and  evenings 
when  they  escaped  even  the  skilful  endeavours  of 
Favonius.  In  vain  did  he  try  every  fly  in  his  book, 
from  the  smallest  "Silver  Doctor"  to  the  largest 
"Golden  Eagle."  The  "Black  Dose"  would  not 
move  them.  The  "Durham  Ranger"  covered  the 
pool  in  vain.  On  days  like  this,  if  a  stray  fish  rose, 
it  was  hard  to  land  him,  for  he  was  usually  but 
slightly  hooked. 

I  remember  one  of  these  shy  creatures  which  led 
me  a  pretty  dance  at  the  mouth  of  Patapedia.  He 
came  to  the  fly  just  at  dusk,  rising  very  softly 
and  quietly,  as  if  he  did  not  really  care  for  it  but 
only  wanted  to  see  what  it  was  like.  He  went  down 
at  once  into  deep  water,  and  began  the  most  dan- 
gerous and  exasperating  of  all  salmon-tactics,  mov- 
ing around  in  slow  circles  and  shaking  his  head 
159 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

from  side  to  side,  with  sullen  pertinacity.  This  is 
called  "jigging,"  and  unless  it  can  be  stopped,  the 
result  is  fatal. 

I  could  not  stop  it.  That  salmon  was  determined 
to  jig.  He  knew  more  than  I  did. 

The  canoe  followed  him  down  the  pool.  He 
jigged  away  past  all  three  of  the  inlets  of  the 
Patapedia,  and  at  last,  in  the  still,  deep  water  be- 
low, after  we  had  laboured  with  him  for  half  an 
hour,  and  brought  him  near  enough  to  see  that  he 
was  immense,  he  calmly  opened  his  mouth  and  the 
fly  came  back  to  me  void.  That  was  a  sad  even- 
ing, in  which  all  the  consolations  of  philosophy 
were  needed. 

Sunday  was  a  very  peaceful  day  in  our  camp. 
In  the  Dominion  of  Canada,  the  question  "to  fish 
or  not  to  fish"  on  the  first  day  of  the  week  is  not 
left  to  the  frailty  of  the  individual  conscience. 
The  law  on  the  subject  is  quite  explicit,  and  says 
that  between  six  o'clock  on  Saturday  evening  and 
six  o'clock  on  Monday  morning  all  nets  shall  be 
taken  up  and  no  one  shall  wet  a  line.  The  Risti- 
gouche  Salmon  Club  has  its  guardians  stationed  all 
160 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

along  the  river,  and  they  are  quite  as  inflexible  in 
seeing  that  their  employers  keep  this  law  as  the 
famous  sentinel  was  in  refusing  to  let  Napoleon 
pass  without  the  countersign.  But  I  do  not  think 
that  these  keen  sportsmen  regard  it  as  a  hardship ; 
they  are  quite  willing  that  the  fish  should  have  "an 
off  day"  in  every  week,  and  only  grumble  because 
some  of  the  net-owners  down  at  the  mouth  of  the 
river  have  brought  political  influence  to  bear  in 
their  favour  and  obtained  exemption  from  the  rule. 
For  our  part,  we  were  nothing  loath  to  hang  up 
our  rods,  and  make  the  day  different  from  other 
days. 

In  the  morning  we  had  a  service  in  the  cabin 
of  the  boat,  gathering  a  little  congregation  of 
guardians  and  boatmen,  and  people  from  a  solitary 
farm-house  by  the  river.  They  came  in  pirogues — 
long,  narrow  boats  hollowed  from  the  trunk  of  a 
tree ;  the  black-eyed,  brown-faced  girls  sitting  back 
to  back  in  the  middle  of  the  boat,  and  the  men 
standing  up  bending  to  their  poles.  It  seemed  a 
picturesque  way  of  travelling,  although  none  too 
safe. 

161 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

In  the  afternoon  we  sat  on  deck  and  looked  at 
the  water.  What  a  charm  there  is  in  watching  a 
swift  stream!  The  eye  never  wearies  of  following 
its  curls  and  eddies,  the  shadow  of  the  waves  dan- 
cing over  the  stones,  the  strange,  crinkling  lines  of 
sunlight  in  the  shallows.  There  is  a  sort  of  fas- 
cination in  it,  lulling  and  soothing  the  mind  into 
a  quietude  which  is  even  pleasanter  than  sleep,  and 
making  it  almost  possible  to  do  that  of  which  we 
so  often  speak,  but  which  we  never  quite  accom- 
plish— "think  about  nothing."  Out  on  the  edge  of 
the  pool,  we  could  see  five  or  six  huge  salmon, 
moving  slowly  from  side  to  side,  or  lying  motion- 
less like  gray  shadows.  There  was  nothing  to  break 
the  silence  except  the  thin  clear  whistle  of  the 
white-throated  sparrow  far  back  in  the  woods. 
This  is  almost  the  only  bird-song  that  one  hears 
on  the  river,  unless  you  count  the  metallic 
"chr-r-r-r39  of  the  kingfisher  as  a  song. 

Every  now  and  then  one  of  the  salmon  in  the 

pool  would  lazily  roll  out  of  water,  or  spring  high 

into  the  air  and  fall  back  with  a  heavy  splash. 

What  is  it  that  makes  salmon  leap?  Is  it  pain  or 

162 


Lulling  and  soothing  the  mind  into  a  quietude. 


THE    RISTIGOUCHE 

pleasure?  Do  they  do  it  to  escape  the  attack  of 
another  fish,  or  to  shake  off  a  parasite  that  clings 
to  them,  or  to  practise  jumping  so  that  they  can 
ascend  the  falls  when  they  reach  them,  or  simply 
and  solely  out  of  exuberant  gladness  and  joy  of 
living?  Any  one  of  these  reasons  would  be  enough 
to  account  for  it  on  week-days.  On  Sunday  I  am 
quite  sure  they  do  it  for  the  trial  of  the  fisher- 
man's faith. 

But  how  should  I  tell  all  the  little  incidents 
which  made  that  lazy  voyage  so  delightful?  Fa- 
vonius  was  the  ideal  host,  for  on  water,  as  well 
as  on  land,  he  knows  how  to  provide  for  the  lib- 
erty as  well  as  for  the  wants  of  his  guests.  He 
understands  also  the  fine  art  of  conversation, 
which  consists  of  silence  as  well  as  speech.  And 
when  it  comes  to  angling,  Izaak  Walton  himself 
could  not  have  been  a  more  profitable  teacher 
by  precept  or  example.  Indeed,  it  is  a  curious 
thought,  and  one  full  of  sadness  to  a  well-consti- 
tuted mind,  that  on  the  Ristigouche  "I.  W." 
would  have  been  at  sea,  for  the  beloved  father  of 
all  fishermen  passed  through  this  world  without 
163 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

ever  catching  a  salmon.  So  ill  does  fortune  match 
with  merit  here  below. 

At  last  the  days  of  idleness  were  ended.  We 
could  not 

"Fold  our  tent*  like  the  Arabs, 
And  as  silently  steal  awayf* 

but  we  took  down  the  long  rods,  put  away  the 
heavy  reels,  made  the  canoes  fast  to  the  side  of 
the  house,  embarked  the  three  horses  on  the 
front  deck,  and  then  dropped  down  with  the 
current,  swinging  along  through  the  rapids,  and 
drifting  slowly  through  the  still  places,  now 
grounding  on  a  hidden  rock,  and  now  sweeping 
around  a  sharp  curve,  until  at  length  we  saw  the 
roofs  of  Metapedia  and  the  ugly  bridge  of  the 
railway  spanning  the  river.  There  we  left  our 
floating  house,  awkward  and  helpless,  like  some 
strange  relic  of  the  flood,  stranded  on  the  shore. 
And  as  we  climbed  the  bank  we  looked  back  and 
wondered  whether  Noah  was  sorry  when  he  said 
good-bye  to  his  ark, 

1888. 

164 


ALPENROSEN  AND   GOAT'S  MILK 


Nay,  let  me  Ml  you,  there  be  many  that  have  forty  times  our  ettates,  that 
would  give  the  greatest  part  of  it  to  be  healthful  and  cheerful  like  us  /  who. 
with  the  expense  of  a  little  money,  have  ate,  and  drank,  and  laughed,  and 
angled,  and  sung,  and  slept  securely  ;  and  rose  next  day,  and  cast  away 
care,  and  sung,  and  laughed,  and  angled  again ;  which  are  blessings  rich 
men  cannot  purchase  with  aU  their  money.  "— IZAAK  WAI/TOM  :  The  Ova* 
pUte  Angler. 


AiJ>ENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

A.  GREAT  deal  of  the  pleasure  of  life  lies  in 
bringing  together  things  which  have  no  connec- 
tion. That  is  the  secret  of  humour — at  least  so 
we  are  told  by  the  philosophers  who  explain  the 
jests  that  other  men  have  made — and  in  regard 
to  travel,  I  am  quite  sure  that  it  must  be  illogical 
in  order  to  be  entertaining.  The  more  contrasts  it 
contains,  the  better. 

Perhaps  it  was  some  philosophical  reflection  of 
this  kind  that  brought  me  to  the  resolution,  on  a 
certain  summer  day,  to  make  a  little  journey,  as 
straight  as  possible,  from  the  sea-level  streets  of 
Venice  to  the  lonely,  lofty  summit  of  a  Tyrolese 
jnountain,  called,  for  no  earthly  reason  that  I  can 
discover,  the  Gross-Venediger. 

But  apart  from  the  philosophy  of  the  matter, 
which  I  must  confess  to  passing  over  very  super- 
ficially at  the  time,  there  were  other  and  more 
cogent  reasons  for  wanting  to  go  from  Venice  to 
167 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  Big  Venetian.  It  was  the  first  of  July,  and 
the  city  on  the  sea  was  becoming  tepid.  A  slum- 
brous haze  brooded  over  canals  and  palaces  and 
churches.  It  was  difficult  to  keep  one's  conscience 
awake  to  Baedeker  and  a  sense  of  moral  obli- 
gation; Ruskin  was  impossible,  and  a  picture- 
gallery  was  a  penance.  We  floated  lazily  from 
one  place  to  another,  and  decided  that,  after 
all,  it  was  too  warm  to  go  in.  The  cries  of 
the  gondoliers,  at  the  canal  corners,  grew  more 
and  more  monotonous  and  dreamy.  There  was 
danger  of  our  falling  fast  asleep  and  having  to 
pay  by  the  hour  for  a  day's  repose  in  a  gondola. 
If  it  grew  much  warmer,  we  might  be  com- 
pelled to  stay  until  the  following  winter  in  order 
to  recover  energy  enough  to  get  away.  All  the 
signs  of  the  times  pointed  northward,  to  the 
mountains,  where  we  should  see  glaciers  and  snow- 
fields,  and  pick  Alpenrosen,  and  drink  goat's  milk 
fresh  from  the  real  goat. 


168 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S  MILK 


The  first  stage  on  the  journey  thither  was  by 
rail  to  Belluno — about  four  or  five  hours.  It  is  a 
sufficient  commentary  on  railway  travel  that  the 
most  important  thing  about  it  is  to  tell  how 
many  hours  it  takes  to  get  from  one  place  to 
another. 

We  arrived  in  Belluno  at  night,  and  when  we 
awoke  the  next  morning  we  found  ourselves  in  a 
picturesque  little  city  of  Venetian  aspect,  with  a 
piazza  and  a  campanile  and  a  Palladian  cathedral, 
surrounded  on  all  sides  by  lofty  hills.  We 
were  at  the  end  of  the  railway  and  at  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Dolomites. 

Although  I  have  a  constitutional  aversion  to 
scientific  information  given  by  unscientific  persons, 
such  as  clergymen  and  men  of  letters,  I  must 
go  in  that  direction  far  enough  to  make  it  clear 
that  the  word  Dolomite  does  not  describe  a 
kind  of  fossil,  nor  a  sect  of  heretics,  but  a  forma- 
tion of  mountains  lying  between  the  Alps  and 
169 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  Adriatic.  Draw  a  diamond  on  the  map,  with 
Brixen  at  the  northwest  corner,  Lienz  at  the 
northeast,  Belluno  at  the  southeast,  and  Trent 
at  the  southwest,  and  you  will  have  included 
the  region  of  the  Dolomites,  a  country  so 
picturesque,  so  interesting,  so  full  of  sublime  and 
beautiful  scenery,  that  it  is  equally  a  wonder 
and  a  blessing  that  it  has  not  been  long  since 
completely  overrun  by  tourists  and  ruined  with 
railways.  It  is  true,  the  glaciers  and  snow- 
fields  are  limited;  the  waterfalls  are  comparatively 
few  and  slender,  and  the  rivers  small;  the 
loftiest  peaks  are  little  more  than  ten  thou- 
sand feet  high.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  moun- 
tains are  always  near,  and  therefore  always 
imposing.  Bold,  steep,  fantastic  masses  of  naked 
rock,  they  rise  suddenly  from  the  green  and 
flowery  valleys  in  amazing  and  endless  con- 
trast; they  mirror  themselves  in  the  tiny  moun- 
tain lakes  like  pictures  in  a  dream. 

I   believe   the   guide-book   says   that  they   are 
formed   of   carbonate   of   lime  and  carbonate  of 
magnesia   in   chemical    composition;   but   even  if 
170 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

this  be  true,  it  need  not  prejudice  any  candid  ob- 
server against  them.  For  the  simple  and  fortunate 
fact  is  that  they  are  built  of  such  stone 
that  wind  and  weather,  keen  frost  and  melting 
snow  and  rushing  water  have  worn  and  cut  and 
carved  them  into  a  thousand  shapes  of  wonder  and 
beauty.  It  needs  but  little  fancy  to  see  in  them 
walls  and  towers,  cathedrals  and  campaniles, 
fortresses  and  cities,  tinged  with  many  hues 
from  pale  gray  to  deep  red,  and  shining  in  an 
air  so  soft,  so  pure,  so  cool,  so  fragrant,  under 
a  sky  so  deep  and  blue  and  a  sunshine  so  genial, 
that  it  seems  like  the  happy  union  of  Switzer- 
land and  Italy. 

The  great  highway  through  this  region  from 
south  to  north  is  the  Ampezzo  road,  which  was  con- 
structed in  1830,  along  the  valleys  of  the  Piave, 
the  Boite,  and  the  Rienz — the  ancient  line  of 
travel  and  commerce  between  Venice  and  Inns- 
bruck. The  road  is  superbly  built,  smooth 
and  level.  Our  carriage  rolled  along  so  easily 
that  we  forgot  and  forgave  its  venerable  ap- 
pearance and  its  lack  of  accommodation  for 
171 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

trunks.  We  had  been  persuaded  to  take  four 
horses,  as  our  luggage  seemed  too  formidable 
for  a  single  pair.  But  in  effect  our  concession  to 
apparent  necessity  turned  out  to  be  a  mere  dis- 
play of  superfluous  luxury,  for  the  two  white 
leaders  did  little  more  than  show  their  feeble 
paces,  leaving  the  gray  wheelers  to  do  the 
work.  We  had  the  elevating  sense  of  travel- 
ling four-in-hand,  however  —  a  satisfaction  to 
which  I  do  not  believe  any  human  being  is  alto- 
gether insensible. 

At  Longarone  we  breakfasted  for  the  second 
time,  and  entered  the  narrow  gorge  of  the  Piave. 
The  road  was  cut  out  of  the  face  of  the  rock. 
Below  us  the  long  lumber-rafts  went  shooting 
down  the  swift  river.  Above,  on  the  right, 
were  the  jagged  crests  of  Monte  Furlon  and 
Premaggiore,  which  seemed  to  us  very  wonderful, 
because  we  had  not  yet  learned  how  jagged  the 
Dolomites  can  be.  At  Perarolo,  where  the  Boite 
joins  the  Piave,  there  is  a  lump  of  a  moun- 
tain in  the  angle  between  the  rivers,  and  around 
this  we  crawled  in  long  curves  until  we  had 


ALJ'ENROSEN  AND   GOAT'S   MILK 

risen  a  thousand   feet,   and  arrived   at  the  same 
Hotel  Venezia,  where  we  were  to  dine. 

While  dinner  was  preparing,  the  Deacon  and  I 
walked  up  to  Pieve  di  Cadore,  the  birthplace  of 
Titian.  The  house  in  which  the  great  painter  first 
saw  the  colours  of  the  world  is  still  standing,  and 
tradition  points  out  the  very  room  in  which  he 
began  to  paint.  I  am  not  one  of  those  who 
would  inquire  too  closely  into  such  a  legend 
as  this.  The  cottage  may  have  been  rebuilt  a 
dozen  times  since  Titian's  day ;  not  a  scrap  of  the 
original  stone  or  plaster  may  remain;  but  beyond 
a  doubt  the  view  that  we  saw  from  the  win- 
dow is  the  same  that  Titian  saw.  Now,  for 
the  first  time,  I  could  understand  and  appre- 
ciate the  landscape-backgrounds  of  his  pictures. 
The  compact  masses  of  mountains,  the  bold, 
sharp  forms,  the  hanging  rocks  of  cold  gray 
emerging  from  green  slopes,  the  intense  blue  aerial 
distances — these  all  had  seemed  to  be  unreal 
and  imaginary — compositions  of  the  studio. 
But  now  I  knew  that,  whether  Titian  painted 
out-of-doors,  like  our  modern  impressionists,  or 
173 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

not,  he  certainly  painted  what  he  had  seen, 
and  painted  it  as  it  is. 

The  graceful  brown-eyed  boy  who  showed  us 
the  house  seemed  also  to  belong  to  one  of  Titian's 
pictures.  As  we  were  going  away,  the  Deacon, 
for  lack  of  copper,  rewarded  him  with  a  little 
silver  piece,  a  half -lira,  in  value  about  ten  cents. 
A  celestial  rapture  of  surprise  spread  over  the 
child's  face,  and  I  know  not  what  blessings  he  in- 
voked upon  us.  He  called  his  companions  to  re- 
joice with  him,  and  we  left  them  clapping  their 
hands  and  dancing. 

Driving  after  one  has  dined  has  always  a 
peculiar  charm.  The  motion  seems  pleasanter, 
the  landscape  finer  than  in  the  morning  hours. 
The  road  from  Cadore  ran  on  a  high  level, 
through  sloping  pastures,  white  villages,  and 
bits  of  larch  forest.  In  its  narrow  bed,  far 
below,  the  river  Boite  roared  as  gently  as 
Bottom's  lion.  The  afternoon  sunlight  touched 
the  snow-capped  pinnacle  of  Antelao  and  the 
massive  pink  wall  of  Sorapis  on  the  right;  on 
the  left,  across  the  valley,  Monte  Pelmo's  vast 
174. 


The  same  that  Titian  saw. 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

head  and  the  wild  crests  of  La  Rochetta  and 
Formin  rose  dark  against  the  glowing  sky.  The 
peasants  lifted  their  hats  as  we  passed,  and  gave 
us  a  pleasant  evening  greeting.  And  so,  almost 
without  knowing  it,  we  slipped  out  of  Italy  into 
Austria,  and  drew  up  before  a  bare,  square  stone 
building  with  the  double  black  eagle,  like  a 
strange  fowl  split  for  broiling,  staring  at  us 
from  the  wall,  and  an  inscription  to  the  ^effect 
that  this  was  the  Royal  and  Imperial  Austrian 
Custom-house. 

The  officer  saluted  us  so  politely  that  we  felt 
quite  sorry  that  his  duty  required  him  to  disturb 
our  luggage.  "The  law  obliged  him  to  open 
one  trunk;  courtesy  forbade  him  to  open  more." 
It  was  quickly  done;  and,  without  having  to 
make  any  contribution  to  the  income  of  His 
Royal  and  Imperial  Majesty,  Francis  Joseph,  we 
rolled  on  our  way,  through  the  hamlets  of  Acqua 
Bona  and  Zuel,  into  the  Ampezzan  metropolis  of 
Cortina,  at  sundown. 

The  modest  inn  called  "The  Star  of  Gold" 
stood  facing  the  public  square,  just  below  the 
175 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

church,  and  the  landlady  stood  facing  us  in  the 
doorway,  with  an  enthusiastic  welcome — alto- 
gether a  most  friendly  and  entertaining  land- 
lady, whose  one  desire  in  life  seemed  to  be  that  we 
should  never  regret  having  chosen  her  house  in- 
stead of  "The  White  Cross,"  or  "The  Black 
Eagle." 

"O  ja!"  she  had  our  telegram  received;  and 
would  we  look  at  the  rooms?  Outlooking  on  the 
piazza,  with  a  balcony  from  which  we  could  ob- 
serve the  Festa  of  to-morrow.  She  hoped  they 
would  please  us.  "Only  come  in;  accommodate 
yourselves." 

It  was  all  as  she  promised;  three  little  bed- 
rooms, and  a  little  salon  opening  on  a  little 
balcony;  queer  old  oil-paintings  and  framed  em- 
broideries and  tiles  hanging  on  the  walls;  spot- 
less curtains,  and  board  floors  so  white  that  it 
would  have  been  a  shame  to  eat  off  them  with- 
out spreading  a  cloth  to  keep  them  from  being 
soiled. 

"These  are  the  rooms  of  the  Baron  Rothschild 
when  he  comes  here  always  in  the  summer— with 
176 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

nine  horses  and  nine  servants — the  Baron  Roth- 
schild of  Vienna." 

I  assured  her  that  we  did  not  know  the 
Baron,  but  that  should  make  no  difference.  We 
would  not  ask  her  to  reduce  the  price  on  account 
of  a  little  thing  like  that. 

She  did  not  quite  grasp  this  idea,  but  hoped 
that  we  would  not  find  the  pension  too  dear 
at  a  dollar  and  fifty-seven  and  a  half  cents  a  day 
each,  with  a  little  extra  for  the  salon  and  the 
balcony.  "The  English  people  all  please  themselves 
here — there  comes  many  every  summer — English 
Bishops  and  their  families." 

I  inquired  whether  there  were  many  Bishops  in 
the  house  at  that  moment. 

"No,  just  at  present — she  was  very  sorry 
— none." 

"Well,  then,"  I  said,  "it  is  all  right.  We  will  take 
the  rooms." 

Good    Signora    Barbaria,    you    did    not    speak 

the    American    language,    nor    understand    those 

curious  perversions  of  thought  which  pass  among 

the  Americans  for  humour;  but  you  understood 

177 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

how  to  make  a  little  inn  cheerful  and  home-like; 
yours  was  a  very  simple  and  agreeable  art  of 
keeping  a  hotel.  As  we  sat  in  the  balcony  after 
supper,  listening  to  the  capital  playing  of  the 
village  orchestra,  and  the  Tyrolese  songs  with 
which  they  varied  their  music,  we  thought  within 
ourselves  that  we  were  fortunate  to  have  fallen  upon 
the  Star  of  Gold. 

n. 

Cortina  lies  in  its  valley  like  a  white  shell 
that  has  rolled  down  into  a  broad  vase  of  mala- 
chite. It  has  about  a  hundred  houses  and  seven 
hundred  inhabitants,  a  large  church  and  two 
small  ones,  a  fine  stone  campanile  with  excellent 
bells,  and  seven  or  eight  little  inns.  But  it  is 
more  important  than  its  size  would  signify,  for 
it  is  the  capital  of  the  district  whose  lawful  title 
is  Magnified  Comnmta  di  Ampezzo — a  name  con- 
ferred long  ago  by  the  Republic  of  Venice.  In 
the  fifteenth  century  it  was  Venetian  terri- 
tory; but  in  1516,  under  Maximilian  I.,  it  was 
joined  to  Austria;  and  it  is  now  one  of  the  rich- 
178 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

est  and  most  prosperous  communes  of  the  Tyrol. 
It  embraces  about  thirty-five  hundred  people, 
scattered  in  hamlets  and  clusters  of  houses 
through  the  green  basin  with  its  four  entrances, 
lying  between  the  peaks  of  Tofana,  Cristallo, 
Sorapis,  and  Nuvolau.  The  well-cultivated  grain 
fields  and  meadows,  the  smooth  alps  filled 
with  fine  cattle,  the  well-built  houses  with  their 
white  stone  basements  and  balconies  of  dark 
brown  wood  and  broad  overhanging  roofs,  all 
speak  of  industry  and  thrift.  But  there  is  more 
than  mere  agricultural  prosperity  in  this  valley. 
There  is  a  fine  race  of  men  and  women — 
intelligent,  vigorous,  and  with  a  strong  sense 
of  beauty.  The  outer  walls  of  the  annex  of  the 
Hotel  Aquila  Nera  are  covered  with  frescoes 
of  marked  power  and  originality,  painted  by 
the  son  of  the  innkeeper.  The  art  schools 
of  Cortina  are  famous  for  their  beautiful  work 
in  gold  and  silver  filigree,  and  wood-inlaying. 
There  are  nearly  two  hundred  pupils  in  these 
schools,  all  peasants'  children,  and  they  produce 
results,  especially  in  mtarsia,  which  are  admi- 
179 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

rable.  The  village  orchestra,  of  which  I  spoke  a 
moment  ago,  is  trained  and  led  by  a  peasant's 
son,  who  has  never  had  a  thorough  musical  edu- 
cation. It  must  have  at  least  twenty-five  mem- 
bers, and  as  we  heard  them  at  the  Festa  they 
seemed  to  play  with  extraordinary  accuracy  and 
expression. 

This  Festa  gave  us  a  fine  chance  to  see  the 
people  of  the  Ampezzo  all  together.  It  was  the 
annual  jubilation  of  the  district;  and  from  all 
the  outlying  hamlets  and  remote  side  valleys, 
even  from  the  neighbouring  vales  of  Agordo  and 
Auronzo,  across  the  mountains,  and  from  Cadore, 
the  peasants,  men  and  women  and  children, 
had  come  in  to  the  Sagro  at  Cortina.  The 
piazza — which  is  really  nothing  more  than  a 
broadening  of  the  road  behind  the  church — was 
quite  thronged.  There  must  have  been  between 
two  and  three  thousand  people. 

The  ceremonies  of  the  day  began  with  general 
church-going.  The  people  here  are  honestly  and 
naturally  religious.  I  have  seen  so  many  ex- 
amples of  what  can  only  be  called  "sincere 
180 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

and  unaffected  piety,"  that  I  cannot  doubt  it. 
The  church,  on  Cortina's  feast-day,  was  crowded 
to  the  doors  with  worshippers,  who  gave  every 
evidence  of  taking  part  not  only  with  the  voice, 
but  also  with  the  heart,  in  the  worship. 

Then  followed  the  public  unveiling  of  a  tab- 
let, on  the  wall  of  the  little  Inn  of  the  Anchor, 
to  the  memory  of  Giammaria  Ghedini,  the  found- 
er of  the  art-schools  of  Cortina.  There  was 
music  by  the  band;  and  an  oration  by  a 
native  Demosthenes  (who  spoke  in  Italian  so 
fluent  that  it  ran  through  one's  senses  like 
water  through  a  sluice,  leaving  nothing  be- 
hind), and  an  original  Canto  sung  by  the  vil- 
lage choir,  with  a  general  chorus,  in  which  they 
called  upon  the  various  mountains  to  "reecho 
the  name  of  the  beloved  master  John-Mary  as 
a  model  of  modesty  and  true  merit,"  and  wound 
up  with — 

"Hurrah  for  John-Mary!    Hurrah  for  his  art! 

Hurrah  for  all  teachers  as  skilful  as  he! 
Hurrah  for  us  all,  who  have  now  taken  part 
In  singing  together  in  do  .  .  re  .  .  mi." 
181 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

It  was  very  primitive,  and  I  do  not  suppose 
that  the  celebration  was  even  mentioned  in  the 
newspapers  of  the  great  world;  but,  after  all, 
has  not  the  man  who  wins  such  a  triumph  as 
this  in  the  hearts  of  his  own  people,  for  whom 
he  has  made  labour  beautiful  with  the  charm  of 
art,  deserved  better  of  fame  than  many  a  crowned 
monarch  or  conquering  warrior?  We  should  be 
wiser  if  we  gave  less  glory  to  the  men  wlio  have 
been  successful  in  forcing  their  feljow-men  to 
die,  and  more  glory  to  the  men  who  have  been 
successful  in  teaching  their  fellow-men  how  to 
live. 

But  the  Festa  of  Cortina  did  not  remain  all 
day  on  this  high  moral  plane.  In  the  afternoon 
came  what  our  landlady  called  "atterlei  Dumm- 
heiten."  There  was  a  grand  lottery  for  the 
benefit  of  the  Volunteer  Fire  Department.  The 
high  officials  sat  up  in  a  green  wooden  booth  in 
the  middle  of  the  square,  and  called  out  the 
numbers  and  distributed  the  prizes.  Then  there 
was  a  greased  pole  with  various  articles  of  an 
attractive  character  tied  to  a  large  hoop  at  the 
182 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

top — silk  aprons,  and  a  green  jacket,  and  hot* 
ties  of  wine,  and  half  a  smoked  pig,  and  a  coil 
of  rope,  and  a  purse.  The  gallant  firemen  vol- 
untarily climbed  up  the  pole  as  far  as  they 
could,  one  after  another,  and  then  involuntarily 
slid  down  again  exhausted,  each  one  wiping  off 
a  little  more  of  the  grease,  until  at  last  the 
lucky  one  came  who  profited  by  his  forerunners' 
labours,  and  struggled  to  the  top  to  snatch  the 
smoked  pig.  After  that  it  was  easy. 

Such  is  success  in  this  unequal  world;  the 
man  who  wipes  off  the  grease  seldom  gets  the 
prize. 

Then  followed  various  games,  with  tubs  of 
water;  and  coins  fastened  to  the  bottom  of  a 
huge  black  frying-pan,  to  be  plucked  off  with 
the  lips;  and  pots  of  flour  to  be  broken  with 
sticks ;  so  that  the  young  lads  of  the  village  were 
ducked  and  blackened  and  powdered  to  an  un- 
limited extent,  amid  the  hilarious  applause  of 
the  spectators.  In  the  evening  there  was  more 
music,  and  the  peasants  danced  in  the  square* 
the  women  quietly  and  rather  heavily,  but  the 

183 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

men  with  amazing  agility,  slapping  the  soles  of 
their  shoes  with  their  hands,  or  turning  cart* 
wheels  in  front  of  their  partners.  At  dark  the 
festivities  closed  with  a  display  of  fireworks; 
there  were  rockets  and  bombs  and  pin-wheels; 
and  the  boys  had  tiny  red  and  blue  lights  which 
they  held  until  their  fingers  were  burned,  just 
as  boys  do  in  America;  and  there  was  a  gen- 
eral hush  of  wonder  as  a  particularly  brilliant 
rocket  swished  into  the  dark  sky;  and  when  it 
burst  into  a  rain  of  serpents,  the  crowd  breathed 
out  its  delight  in  a  long-drawn  "Ah-h-h-h!"  just 
as  the  crowd  does  everywhere.  We  might  easily 
have  imagined  ourselves  at  a  Fourth  of  July 
celebration  in  Vermont,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  costumes. 

The  men  of  the  Ampezzo  Valley  have  kept 
but  little  that  is  peculiar  in  their  dress.  Men 
are  naturally  more  progressive  than  women,  and 
therefore  less  picturesque.  The  tide  of  fashion 
has  swept  them  into  the  international  monotony 
of  coat  and  vest  and  trousers — pretty  much 
the  same,  and  equally  ugly,  all  over  the  world. 


ALPENROSEN   AND   GOAT'S  MILK 

Now  and  then  you  may  see  a  short  jacket  with 
silver  buttons,  or  a  pair  of  knee-breeches;  and 
almost  all  the  youths  wear  a  bunch  of  feathers 
or  a  tuft  of  chamois'  hair  in  their  soft  green 
hats.  But  the  women  of  the  Ampezzo — strong, 
comely,  with  golden  brown  complexions,  and 
often  noble  faces — are  not  ashamed  to  dress 
as  their  grandmothers  did.  They  wear  a  lit- 
tle round  black  felt  hat  with  rolled  rim  and 
two  long  ribbons  hanging  down  at  the  back. 
Their  hair  is  carefully  braided  and  coiled,  and 
stuck  through  and  through  with  great  silver 
pins.  A  black  bodice,  fastened  with  silver  clasps, 
is  covered  in  front  with  the  ends  of  a  brill- 
iant silk  kerchief,  laid  in  many  folds  around 
the  shoulders.  The  white  shirt-sleeves  are  very 
full  and  fastened  up  above  the  elbow  with 
coloured  ribbon.  If  the  weather  is  cool,  the 
women  wear  a  short  black  jacket,  with  satin 
yoke  and  high  puffed  sleeves.  But,  whatever 
the  weather  may  be,  they  make  no  change  in  the 
large,  full  dark  skirts,  almost  completely  covered 
with  immense  silk  aprons,  by  preference  light 
185 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

blue.  It  is  not  a  remarkably  brilliant  dress, 
compared  with  that  which  one  may  still  see  in 
some  districts  of  Norway  or  Sweden,  but  upon 
the  whble  it  suits  the  women  of  the  Ampezzo 
wonderfully. 

For  my  part,  I  think  that  when  a  woman  has 
found  a  dress  that  becomes  her,  it  is  a  waste  of  time 
to  send  to  Paris  for  a  fashion-plate. 

ra. 

When  the  excitement  of  the  Festa  had  sub- 
sided, we  were  free  to  abandon  ourselves  to  the 
excursions  in  which  the  neighbourhood  of  Cortina 
abounds,  and  to  which  the  guide-book  earnest- 
ly calls  every  right-minded  traveller.  A  walk 
through  the  light-green  shadows  of  the  larch- 
woods  to  the  tiny  lake  of  Ghedina,  where  we 
could  see  all  the  four  dozen  trout  swimming 
about  in  the  clear  water  and  catching  flies;  a 
drive  to  the  Belvedere,  where  there  are  super- 
ficial refreshments  above  and  profound  grottos 
below;  these  were  trifles,  though  we  enjoyed 
them.  But  the  great  mountains  encircling  us 
186 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

on  every  side,  standing  out  in  clear  view  with 
that  distinctness  and  completeness  of  vision 
which  is  one  charm  of  the  Dolomites,  seemed  to 
summon  us  to  more  arduous  enterprises.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  Deacon  and  I  selected  the  easiest 
one,  engaged  a  guide,  and  prepared  for  the 
ascent. 

Monte  Nuvolau  is  not  a  perilous  mountain.  I 
am  quite  sure  that  at  my  present  time  of  life  I 
should  be  unwilling  to  ascend  a  perilous  moun- 
tain unless  there  were  something  extraordinarily 
desirable  at  the  top,  or  remarkably  disagreeable 
at  the  bottom.  Mere  risk  has  lost  the  attrac- 
tions which  it  once  had.  As  the  father  of  a 
family  I  felt  bound  to  abstain  from  going  for 
amusement  into  any  place  which  a  Christian 
lady  might  not  visit  with  propriety  and  safety. 
Our  preparation  for  Nuvolau,  therefore,  did  not 
consist  of  ropes,  ice-irons,  and  axes,  but  simply  of 
a  lunch  and  two  long  sticks. 

Our  way  led  us,  in  the  early  morning,  through 
the  clustering  houses  of  Lacedel,  up  the  broad, 
green  slope  that  faces  Cortina  on  the  west,  to  the 
187 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

beautiful  Alp  Pocol.  Nothing  could  exceed  the 
pleasure  of  such  a  walk  in  the  cool  of  the  day, 
while  the  dew  still  lies  on  the  short,  rich  grass, 
and  the  myriads  of  flowers  are  at  their  brightest 
and  sweetest.  The  infinite  variety  and  abun- 
dance of  the  blossoms  is  a  continual  wonder. 
They  are  sown  more  thickly  than  the  stars  in 
heaven,  and  the  rainbow  itself  does  not  show  so 
many  tints.  Here  they  are  mingled  like  the 
threads  of  some  strange  embroidery;  and  there 
again  nature  has  massed  her  colours;  so  that 
one  spot  will  be  all  pale  blue  with  innumerable 
forget-me-nots,  or  dark  blue  with  gentians; 
another  will  blush  with  the  delicate  pink  of  the 
Santa  Lucia  or  the  deeper  red  of  the  clover; 
and  another  will  shine  yellow  as  cloth  of  gold. 
Over  all  this  opulence  of  bloom  the  larks  were 
soaring  and  singing.  I  never  heard  so  many 
as  in  the  meadows  about  Cortina.  There  was 
always  a  sweet  spray  of  music  sprinkling  down 
out  of  the  sky,  where  the  singers  poised  un- 
seen. It  was  like  walking  through  a  shower  of 
melody. 

188 


ALFENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S   MILK 

From  the  Alp  Pocol,  which  is  simply  a  fair, 
lofty  pasture,  we  had  our  first  full  view  of 
Nuvolau,  rising  bare  and  strong,  like  a  huge 
bastion,  from  the  dark  fir-woods.  Through 
these  our  way  led  onward  now  for  seven  miles, 
with  but  a  slight  ascent.  Then  turning  off  to 
the  left  we  began  to  climb  sharply  through  the 
forest.  There  we  found  abundance  of  the  lovelv 

•f 

Alpenrosen,  which  do  not  bloom  on  the  lower 
ground.  Their  colour  is  a  deep,  glowing  pinl^ 
and  when  a  Tyrolese  girl  gives  you  one  of  these 
flowers  to  stick  in  the  band  of  yqur  hat,  you 
may  know  that  you  have  found  favour  in 
her  eyes. 

Through  the  wood  the  cuckoo  was  calling 
—  the  bird  which  reverses  the  law  of  good 
children,  and  insists  on  being  heard,  but  not 
seen. 

When  the  forest  was  at  an  end  we  found  our- 
selves at  the  foot  of  an  alp  which  sloped  steeply 
up  to  the  Five  Towers  of  Averau.  The  effect  of 
these  enormous  masses  of  rock,  standing  out  in 
lonely  grandeur,  like  the  ruins  of  some  forsaken 
189 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

habitation  of  giants,  was  tremendous.  Seen 
from  far  below  in  the  valley  their  form  was  pict- 
uresque and  striking;  but  as  we  sat  beside  the 
clear,  cold  spring  which  gushes  out  at  the  foot 
of  the  largest  tower,  the  Titanic  rocks  seemed 
to  hang  in  the  air  above  us  as  if  they  would  v 
overawe  us  into  a  sense  of  their  majesty.  We 
felt  it  to  the  full;  yet  none  the  less,  but  rather 
the  more,  could  we  feel  at  the  same  time  the 
delicate  and  ethereal  beauty  of  the  fringed  gen- 
tianella  and  the  pale  Alpine  lilies  scattered  on 
the  short  turf  beside  us. 

We  had  now  been  on  foot  about  three  hours 
and  a  half.  The  half  hour  that  remained  was 
the  hardest.  Up  over  loose,  broken  stones  that 
rolled  beneath  our  feet,  up  over  great  slopes  of 
rough  rock,  up  across  little  fields  of  snow  where 
we  paused  to  celebrate  the  Fourth  of  July  with 
a  brief  snowball  fight,  up  along  a  narrowing 
ridge  with  a  precipice  on  either  hand,  and 
so  at  last  to  the  summit,  8600  feet  above  the 
sea. 

It   is  not  a   great   height,  but  it  is  a   noble 
190 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

situation.  For  Nuvolau  Is  fortunately  placed  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  Dolomites,  and  so  com- 
mands a  finer  view  than  many  a  higher  moun- 
tain. Indeed,  it  is  not  from  the  highest  peaks, 
according  to  my  experience,  that  one  gets  the 
grandest  prospects,  but  rather  from  those  of  mid- 
dle height,  which  are  so  isolated  as  to  give  a 
wide  circle  of  vision,  and  from  which  one  can 
see  both  the  valleys  and  the  summits.  Monte 
Rosa  itself  gives  a  less  imposing  view  than  the 
Gorner  Grat. 

It  is  possible,  in  this  world,  to  climb  too  high 
for  pleasure. 

But  what  a  panorama  Nuvolau  gave  us  on 
that  clear,  radiant  summer  morning — a  perfect 
circle  of  splendid  sight!  On  one  side  we  looked 
down  upon  the  Five  Towers;  on  the  other,  a 
thousand  feet  below,  the  Alps,  dotted  with  the 
huts  of  the  herdsmen,  sloped  down  into  the  deep- 
cut  vale  of  Agordo.  Opposite  to  us  was  the 
enormous  mass  of  Tofana,  a  pile  of  gray  and 
pink  and  saffron  rock.  When  we  turned  the 
other  way,  we  faced  a  group  of  mountains  as 
191 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

ragged  as  the  crests  of  a  line  of  fir-trees,  and 
behind  them  loomed  the  solemn  head  of  Pelmo. 
Across  the  broad  vale  of  the  Boite,  Antelao 
stood  beside  Sorapis,  like  a  campanile  beside  a 
cathedral,  and  Cristallo  towered  above  the  green 
pass  of  the  Three  Crosses.  Through  that  open- 
ing we  could  see  the  bristling  peaks  of  the  Sex- 
tenthal.  Sweeping  around  in  a  wider  circle 
from  that  point,  we  saw,  beyond  the  Dtirrenstein, 
the  snow-covered  pile  of  the  Gross-Glockner ; 
the  crimson  bastions  of  the  Rothwand  appeared 
to  the  north,  behind  Tofana;  then  the  white 
slopes  that  hang  far  away  above  the  Zillerthal; 
and,  nearer,  the  Geislerspitze,  like  five  fingers 
thrust  into  the  air;  behind  that,  the  distant 
Oetzthaler  Mountain,  and  just  a  single  white 
glimpse  of  the  highest  peak  of  the  Ortler  by  the 
Engadine;  nearer  still  we  saw  the  vast  fortress 
of  the  Sella  group  and  the  red  combs  of  the 
Rosengarten;  Monte  Marmolata,  the  Queen  of 
the  Dolomites,  stood  before  us  revealed  from 
base  to  peak  in  a  bridal  dress  of  snow;  and 
southward  we  looked  into  the  dark  rugged 
192 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

of  La  Civetta,  rising  sheer  out  of  the  vale  of 
Agordo,  where  the  Lake  of  Alleghe  slept  unseen. 
It  was  a  sea  of  mountains,  tossed  around  us 
into  a  myriad  of  motionless  waves,  and  with  a 
rainbow  of  colours  spread  among  their  hollows 
and  across  their  crests.  The  cliffs  of  rose  and 
orange  and  silver  gray,  the  valleys  of  deepest 
green,  the  distant  shadows  of  purple  and  melt- 
ing blue,  and  the  dazzling  white  of  the  scattered 
mow-fields  seemed  to  shift  and  vary  like  the 
hues  on  the  inside  of  a  shell.  And  over  all,  from 
peak  to  peak,  the  light,  feathery  clouds  went 
drifting  lazily  and  slowly,  as  if  they  could  not 
leave  a  scene  so  fair. 

There  is  barely  room  on  the  top  of  Nuvolau 
for  the  stone  shelter-hut  which  a  grateful  Saxon 
baron  has  built  there  as  a  sort  of  votive  offering 
for  the  recovery  of  his  health  among  the  moun- 
tains. As  we  sat  within  and  ate  our  frugal 
lunch,  we  were  glad  that  he  had  recovered  his 
health,  and  glad  that  he  had  built  the  hut,  and 
glad  that  we  had  come  to  it.  In  fact,  we  could 
almost  sympathise  in  our  cold,  matter-of-fact 
196 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

American   way  with  the  sentimental  German  in- 
scription which  we  read  on  the  wall:  — 

Von  Nuvolau's  hohen  Wolkenstufen 
Lass  mich,  Natur,  durch  deine  Himmel  rufen— 
An  deiner  Brust  gesunde,  wer  da  krank! 
So  wird  sum  Volkerdank  mem  Sachsendank. 

We  refrained,  however,  from  shouting  any- 
thing through  Nature's  heaven,  but  went  lightly 
down,  in  about  three  hours,  to  supper  in  the  Star 
of  Gold. 


When  a  stern  necessity  forces*  one  to  leave 
Cortina,  there  are  several  ways  of  departure. 
We  selected  the  main  highway  for  our  trunks, 
but  for  ourselves  the  Pass  of  the  Three  Crosses; 
the  Deacon  and  the  Deaconess  in  a  mountain 
waggon,  and  I  on  foot.  It  should  be  written 
as  an  axiom  in  the  philosophy  of  travel  that  the 
easiest  way  is  best  for  your  luggage,  and  the 
hardest  way  is  best  for  yourself. 

All  along  the  rough  road  up  to  the  Pass,  we 
194 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOAT  S   MILh 

had  a  glorious  outlook  backward  over  the  Val 
d*  Ampezzo,  and  when  we  came  to  the  top,  we 
looked  deep  down  into  the  narrow  Val  Buona 
behind  Sorapis.  I  do  not  know  just  when  we 
passed  the  Austrian  border,  but  when  we  came 
to  Lake  Misurina  we  found  ourselves  in  Italy 
again.  My  friends  went  on  down  the  valley  to 
Landro,  but  I  in  my  weakness,  having  eaten  of 
the  trout  of  the  lake  for  dinner,  could  not  re- 
sist the  temptation  of  staying  over-night  to  catch 
one  for  breakfast. 

It  was  a  pleasant  failure.  The  lake  was 
beautiful,  lying  on  top  of  the  mountain  like  a 
bit  of  blue  sky,  surrounded  by  the  peaks  of 
Cristallo,  Cadino,  and  the  Drei  Zinnen.  It  was 
a  happiness  to  float  on  such  celestial  waters  and 
cast  the  hopeful  fly.  The  trout  were  there; 
they  were  large;  I  saw  them;  they  also  saw 
me;  but,  alas!  I  could  not  raise  them.  Misu- 
rina  is,  in  fact,  what  the  Scotch  call  "a  dour 
loch,"  one  of  those  places  which  are  outwardly 
beautiful,  but  inwardly  so  demoralised  that  the 
trout  will  not  rise. 

195 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

When  we  came  ashore  in  the  evening,  the 
boatman  consoled  me  with  the  story  of  a  French 
count  who  had  spent  two  weeks  there  fishing, 
and  only  caught  one  fish.  I  had  some  thoughts 
of  staying  thirteen  days  longer,  to  rival  the 
count,  but  concluded  to  go  on  the  next  morn- 
ing, over  Monte  Pian  and  the  Cat's  Ladder  to 
Landro. 

The  view  from  Monte  Pian  is  far  less  exten- 
sive than  that  from  Nuvolau;  but  it  has  the 
advantage  of  being  very  near  the  wild  jum- 
ble of  the  Sexten  Dolomites.  The  Three  Shoe- 
makers and  a  lot  more  of  sharp  and  ragged 
fellows  are  close  by,  on  the  east;  on  the  west, 
Cristallo  shows  its  fine  little  glacier,  and  Roth- 
wand  its  crimson  cliffs;  and  southward  Misu- 
rina  gives  to  the  view  a  glimpse  of  water, 
without  which,  indeed,  no  view  is  complete. 
Moreover,  the  mountain  has  the  merit  of  being, 
as  its  name  implies,  quite  gentle.  I  met  the 
Deacon  and  the  Deaconess  at  the  top,  they  hav 
ing  walked  up  from  Landro.  And  so  we  crossed 
the  boundary  line  together  again,  seven  thousand 
196 


ALPENROSEN   AND   GOAT  S   MILK 

feet    above    the    sea,    from    Italy    into    Austria, 
There  was  no  custom-house. 

The  way  down,  by  the  Cat's  Ladder,  I  trav- 
elled alone.  The  path  was  very  steep  and  little 
worn,  but  even  on  the  mountain-side  there  was 
no  danger  of  losing  it,  for  it  had  been  blazed 
here  and  there,  on  trees  and  stones,  with  a  dash 
of  blue  paint.  This  is  the  work  of  the  in- 
valuable DOAV — which  is,  being  interpreted, 
the  German-Austrian  Alpine  Club.  The  more 
one  travels  in  the  mountains,  the  more  one  learns 
to  venerate  this  beneficent  society,  for  the  shel- 
ter-huts and  guide-posts  it  has  erected,  and  the 
paths  it  has  made  and  marked  distinctly  with 
various  colours.  The  Germans  have  a  genius 
for  thoroughness.  My  little  brown  guide-book, 
for  example,  not  only  informed  me  through 
whose  back  yard  I  must  go  to  get  into  a  cer- 
tain path,  but  it  told  me  that  in  such  and 
such  a  spot  I  should  find  quite  a  good  deal  (zlem- 
lichviel)  of  Edelweiss,  and  in  another  a  small 
echo;  it  advised  me  in  one  valley  to  take  pro- 
visions and  dispense  with  a  guide,  and  in  a&- 
197 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

other  to  take  a  guide  and  dispense  with  pro- 
visions, adding  varied  information  in  regard  to 
beer,  which  in  my  case  was  useless,  for  I  could 
not  touch  it.  To  go  astray  under  such  auspices 
would  be  worse  than  inexcusable. 

Landro  we  found  a  very  different  place  from 
Cortina.  Instead  of  having  a  large  church  and 
a  number  of  small  hotels,  it  consists  entirely  of 
one  large  hotel  and  a  very  tiny  church.  It  does 
not  lie  in  a  broad,  open  basin,  but  in  a  narrow 
valley,  shut  in  closely  by  the  mountains.  The 
hotel,  in  spite  of  its  size,  is  excellent,  and  a 
few  steps  up  the  valley  is  one  of  the  finest  views  in 
the  Dolomites.  To  the  east  opens  a  deep,  wild 
gorge,  at  the  head  of  which  the  pinnacles  of 
the  Drei  Zinnen  are  seen;  to  the  south  the  Diir- 
rensee  fills  the  valley  from  edge  to  edge,  and 
reflects  in  its  pale  waters  the  huge  bulk  of 
Monte  Cristallo.  It  is  such  a  complete  picture, 
so  finished,  so  compact,  so  balanced,  that  one 
might  think  a  painter  had  composed  it  in  a  mo- 
ment of  inspiration.  But  no  painter  ever  laid 
such  colours  on  his  canvas  as  those  which  are 
198 


ALFENROSEN   AND  GOAT  8  Mil  fc 

seen  here  when  the  cool  evening  shadows  have 
settled  upon  the  valley,  all  gray  and  green, 
while  the  mountains  shine  above  in  rosy  Al~ 
penglow,  as  if  transfigured  with  inward  fire. 

There  is  another  lake,  about  three  miles  north 
of  Landro,  called  the  Toblacher  See,  and  there 
I  repaired  the  defeat  of  Misurina.  The  trout  at 
the  outlet,  by  the  bridge,  were  very  small, 
and  while  the  old  fisherman  was  endeavouring 
to  catch  some  of  them  in  his  new  net,  which 
would  not  work,  I  pushed  my  boat  up  to  the 
head  of  the  lake,  where  the  stream  came  in. 
The  green  water  was  amazingly  clear,  but  the 
current  kept  the  fish  with  their  heads  up  stream; 
so  that  one  could  come  up  behind  them  near 
enough  for  a  long  cast,  without  being  seen.  As 
my  fly  lighted  above  them  and  came  gently 
down  with  the  ripple,  I  saw  the  first  fish  turn 
and  rise  and  take  it.  A  motion  of  the  wrist  hooked 
him,  and  he  played  just  as  gamely  as  a  trout  in 
my  favourite  Long  Island  pond.  How  different  the 
colour,  though,  as  he  came  out  of  the  water. 
This  fellow  was  all  silvery,  with  light  pink 
199 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

spots  on  his  sides.  I  took  seven  of  his  companions! 
in  weight  some  four  pounds,  and  then  stopped 
because  the  evening  light  was  failing. 

How  pleasant  it  is  to  fish  in  Such  a  place  and 
at  such  an  hour!  The  novelty  of  the  scene,  the 
grandeur  of  the  landscape,  lend  a  strange  charm 
to  the  sport.  But  the  sport  itself  is  so  familiar 
that  one  feels  at  home — the  motion  of  the  rod, 
the  feathery  swish  of  the  line,  the  sight  of  the 
rising  fish — it  all  brings  back  a  hundred  wood- 
land memories,  and  thoughts  of  good  fishing 
comrades,  some  far  away  across  the  sea,  and, 
perhaps,  even  now  sitting  around  the  forest 
camp-fire  in  Maine  or  Canada,  and  some  with 
whom  we  shall  keep  company  no  more  until  we 
cross  the  greater  ocean  into  that  happy  country 
whither  they  have  preceded  us. 

v. 

Instead  of  going  straight  down  the  valley  by 
the  high  road,  a  drive  of  an  hour,  to  the  rail- 
way   in   the   Pusterthal,    I  walked    up    over   the 
mountains   to    the    east,    across    the    Platzwiesen, 
300 


ALPENROSEN  AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

and  so  down  through  the  Pragserthal.  In  one 
arm  of  the  deep  fir-clad  vale  are  the  Baths  of 
Alt-Prags,  famous  for  having  cured  the  Countess 
of  Gorz  of  a  violent  rheumatism  in  the  fifteenth 
century.  It  is  an  antiquated  establishment, 
and  the  guests,  who  were  walking  about  in  the 
fields  or  drinking  their  coffee  in  the  balcony, 
had  a  fifteenth  century  look  about  them — ven- 
erable but  slightly  ruinous.  But  perhaps  that  was 
merely  a  rheumatic  result. 

All  the  waggons  in  the  place  were  engaged. 
It  is  strange  what  an  aggravating  effect  this 
state  of  affairs  has  upon  a  pedestrian  who  is 
bent  upon  riding.  I  did  not  recover  my  delight 
in  the  scenery  until  I  had  walked  about  five 
miles  farther,  and  sat  down  on  the  grass,  be- 
side a  beautiful  spring,  to  eat  my  lunch. 

What  is  there  in  a  little  physical  rest  that  has 
such  magic  to  restore  the  sense  of  pleasure?  A 
few  moments  ago  nothing  pleased  you — the 
bloom  was  gone  from  the  peach;  but  now  it  has 
come  back  again  —  you  wonder  and  admire. 
Thus  cheerful  and  contented  I  trudged  up  the 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

right  arm  of  the  valley  to  the  Baths  of  Neu« 
Prags,  less  venerable,  but  apparently  more  popu- 
lar than  Alt-Prags,  and  on  beyond  them,  through 
the  woods,  to  the  superb  Pragser-Wildsee,  a  lake 
whose  still  waters,  now  blue  as  sapphire  under 
the  clear  sky,  and  now  green  as  emerald  under 
gray  clouds,  sleep  encircled  by  mighty  preci- 
pices. Could  anything  be  a  greater  contrast 
with  Venice?  There  the  canals  alive  with  gon- 
dolas, and  the  open  harbour  bright  with  many- 
coloured  sails ;  here,  the  hidden  lake,  silent  and 
lifeless,  save  when 

"A  leaping  fish 
Sends  through  the  tarn  a  lonely  cheer." 

Tired,  and  a  little  foot-sore,  after  nine  hours' 
walking,  I  came  into  the  big  railway  hotel  at 
Toblach  that  night.  There  I  met  my  friends 
again,  and  parted  from  them  and  the  Dolomites 
the  next  day,  .with  regret.  For  they  were 
"stepping  westward;"  but  in  order  to  get  to 
the  Gross- Venediger  I  must  make  a  devour  to 
the  east,  through  the  Pusterthal,  and  come  up 
202 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

through    the    valley    of    the    Isel   to    the    great 
chain  of  mountains  called  the  Hohe  Tauenu 

At  the  junction  of  the  Isel  and  the  Drau 
lies  the  quaint  little  city  of  Lienz,  with  its  two 
castles — the  square,  double-towered  one  in  the 
town,  now  transformed  into  the  offices  of  the 
municipality,  and  the  huge  mediaeval  one  on  a 
hill  outside,  now  used  as  a  damp  restaurant  and 
dismal  beer-cellar.  I  lingered  at  Lienz  for  a 
couple  of  days,  in  the  ancient  hostelry  of  the 
Post.  The  hallways  were  vaulted  like  a  cloister, 
the  walls  were  three  feet  thick,  the  kitchen  was 
in  the  middle  of  the  house  on  the  second  floor, 
so  that  I  looked  into  it  every  time  I  came  from 
my  room,  and  ordered  dinner  direct  from  the 
cook.  But,  so  far  from  being  displeased  with 
these  peculiarities,  I  rather  liked  the  flavour  of 
them;  and  then,  in  addition,  the  landlady's 
daughter,  who  was  managing  the  house,  was  a 
person  of  most  engaging  manners,  and  there 
was  trout  and  grayling  fishing  in  a  stream  near 
by,  and  the  neighbouring  church  of  Dolsach 
contained  the  beautiful  picture  of  the  Holy 
203 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

Family,  which  Franz  Defregger  painted  for  hie 
native  village. 

The  peasant  women  of  Lienz  have  one  very 
striking  feature  in  their  dress — a  black  felt  hat 
with  a  broad,  stiff  brim  and  a  high  crown, 
smaller  at  the  top  than  at  the  base.  It  looks 
a  little  like  the  traditional  head-gear  of  the 
Pilgrim  Fathers,  exaggerated.  There  is  a  so- 
lemnity about  it  which  is  fatal  to  feminine 
beauty. 

I  went  by  the  post-waggon,  with  two  slow 
horses  and  ten  passengers,  fifteen  miles  up 
the  Iselthal,  to  Windisch-Matrei,  a  village 
whose  early  history  is  lost  in  the  mist  of  an- 
tiquity, and  whose  streets  are  pervaded  with 
odours  which  must  have  originated  at  the  same 
time  with  the  village.  One  wishes  that  they 
also  might  have  shared  the  fate  of  its  early 
history.  But  it  is  not  fair  to  expect  too  much 
of  a  small  place,  and  Windisch-Matrei  has  cer- 
tainly a  beautiful  situation  and  a  good  inn.  There  I 
took  my  guide — a  wiry  and  companionable  little 
man,  whose  occupation  in  the  lower  world  was 
204 


ALPENROSEN   AND   GOAT'S   MILK 

that  of  a  maker  and  merchant  of  hats — and  set 
out  for  the  Pragerhiitte,  a  shelter  on  the  side  of 
the  Gross-Venediger. 

The  path  led  under  the  walls  of  the  old  Castle 
of  Weissenstein,  and  then  in  steep  curves  up 
the  cliff  which  blocks  the  head  of  the  valley, 
and  along  a  cut  in  the  face  of  the  rock,  into 
the  steep,  narrow  Tauernthal,  which  divides  the 
Glockner  group  from  the  Venediger.  How 
entirely  different  it  was  from  the  region  of  the 
Dolomites!  There  the  variety  of  colour  was 
endless  and  the  change  incessant;  here  it  was 
all  green  grass  and  trees  and  black  rocks,  with 
glimpses  of  snow.  There  the  highest  mountains 
were  in  sight  constantly;  here  they  could  only 
be  seen  from  certain  points  in  the  valley. 
There  the  streams  played  but  a  small  part  in 
the  landscape;  here  they  were  prominent,  the 
main  river  raging  and  foaming  through  the 
gorge  below,  while  a  score  of  waterfalls  leaped 
from  the  cliffs  on  either  side  and  dashed  down 
to  join  it. 

The  peasants,  men,  women  and  children,  were 
205 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

cutting  the  grass  in  the  perpendicular  fields;  the 
woodmen  were  trimming  and  felling  the  trees  in 
the  fir- forests;  the  cattle-tenders  were  driving 
their  cows  along  the  stony  path,  or  herding 
them  far  up  on  the  hillsides.  It  was  a  lonely 
scene,  and  yet  a  busy  one;  and  all  along  the 
road  was  written  the  history  of  the  perils 
and  hardships  of  the  life  which  now  seemed 
so  peaceful  and  picturesque  under  the  summer 
sunlight. 

These  heavy  crosses,  each  covered  with  a 
narrow,  pointed  roof  and  decorated  with  a  rude 
picture,  standing  beside  the  path,  or  on  the 
bridge,  or  near  the  mill — what  do  they  mean? 
They  mark  the  place  where  a  human  life  hae 
been  lost,  or  where  some  poor  peasant  has  been 
delivered  from  a  great  peril,  and  has  set  up  a 
memorial  of  his  gratitude. 

Stop,  traveller,  as  you  pass  by,  and  look  at 
the  pictures.  They  have  little  more  of  art  than 
a  child's  drawing  on  a  slate;  but  they  will  teach 
you  what  it  means  to  earn  a  living  in  these 
mountains.  They  tell  of  the  danger  that  lurks 
206 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S   MILK 

on  the  steep  slopes  of  grass,  where  the  mowers 
have  to  go  down  with  ropes  around  their  waists, 
and  in  the  beds  of  the  streams  where  the  floods 
sweep  through  in  the  spring,  and  in  the  forests 
where  the  great  trees  fall  and  crush  men  like 
flies,  and  on  the  icy  bridges  where  a  slip  is  fatal, 
and  on  the  high  passes  where  the  winter  snow- 
storm blinds  the  eyes  and  benumbs  the  limbs  of 
the  traveller,  and  under  the  cliffs  from  which 
avalanches  slide  and  rocks  roll.  They  show 
you  men  and  women  falling  from  waggons,  and 
swept  away  by  waters,  and  overwhelmed  in  land- 
slips. In  the  corner  of  the  picture  you  may  see 
a  peasant  with  the  black  cross  above  his  head — 
that  means  death.  Or  perhaps  it  is  deliverance 
that  the  tablet  commemorates — and  then  you 
will  see  the  miller  kneeling  beside  his  mill  with 
a  flood  rushing  down  upon  it,  or  a  peasant  kneel- 
ing in  his  harvest-field  under  an  inky-black 
cloud,  or  a  landlord  beside  his  inn  in  flames,  or 
a  mother  praying  beside  her  sick  children;  and 
above  appears  an  angel,  or  a  saint,  or  the  Virgin 
with  her  Child. 

207 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

Read  the  inscriptions,  too,  in  their  quaint 
German.  Some  of  them  are  as  humourous  as  the 
epitaphs  in  New  England  graveyards.  I  remem- 
ber one  which  ran  like  this: 

Here  lies  Elias  Queer, 

Killed  in  his  sixtieth  year; 

Scarce  had  he  seen  the  light  of  day 

When  a  waggon-wheel  crushed  his  life  away. 

And  there  is  another  famous  one  which  says : 

Here  perished  the  honoured  and  virtuous 
maiden, 

G.r. 

This  tablet  was  erected  by  her  only  son. 

But  for  the  most  part  a  glance  at  these 
Marterl  und  Taferl,  which  are  so  frequent  on 
all  the  mountain-roads  of  the  Tyrol,  will  give 
you  a  strange  sense  of  the  real  pathos  of  human 
life.  If  you  are  a  Catholic,  you  will  not  refuse 
their  request  to  say  a  prayer  for  the  departed ;  if 
you  are  a  Protestant,  at  least  it  will  not  hurt  you 
to  say  one  for  those  who  still  live  and  suffer  and 
toil  among  such  dangers. 

208 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S   MILK 

After  we  had  walked  for  four  hours  up  the 
Tauernthal,  we  came  to  the  Matreier-Tauern- 
haus,  an  inn  which  is  kept  open  all  the  year  for 
the  shelter  of  travellers  over  the  high  pass  that 
crosses  the  mountain-range  at  this  point,  from 
north  to  south.  There  we  dined.  It  was  a 
bare,  rude  place,  but  the  dish  of  juicy  trout  was 
garnished  with  flowers,  each  fish  holding  a  big 
pansy  in  its  mouth,  and  as  the  maid  set  them 
down  before  me  she  wished  me  "a  good 
appetite,"  with  the  hearty  old-fashioned  Tyrolese 
courtesy  which  still  survives  in  these  remote 
valleys.  It  is  pleasant  to  travel  in  a  land  where 
the  manners  are  plain  and  good.  If  you  meet  a 
peasant  on  the  road  he  says,  "God  greet  you !" 
if  you  give  a  child  a  couple  of  kreuzers  he  folds 
his  hands  and  says,  "God  reward  you!"  and 
the  maid  who  lights  you  to  bed  says,  "Good- 
night, I  hope  you  will  sleep  well!" 

Two  hours  more  of  walking  brought  us 
through  Ausser-gschloss  and  Inner-gschloss,  two 
groups  of  herdsmen's  huts,  tenanted  only  in 
summer,  at  the  head  of  the  Tauernthal.  Mid- 
209 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

way  between  them  lies  a  little  chapel,  cut  into 
the  solid  rock  for  shelter  from  the  avalanches. 
This  lofty  vale  is  indeed  rightly  named;  for  it  is 
shut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world.  The  portal 
is  a  cliff  down  which  the  stream  rushes  in  foam 
and  thunder.  On  either  hand  rises  a  mountain 
wall.  Within,  the  pasture  is  fresh  and  green, 
sprinkled  with  Alpine  roses,  and  the  pale  river 
flows  swiftly  down  between  the  rows  of  dark 
wooden  houses.  At  the  head  of  the  vale  towers 
the  Gross- Venediger,  with  its  glaciers  and  snow- 
fields  dazzling  white  against  the  deep  blue 
heaven.  The  murmur  of  the  stream  and  the 
tinkle  of  the  cow-bells  and  the  jodelling  of  the 
herdsmen  far  up  the  slopes,  make  the  music  for 
the  scene. 

The  path  from  Gschloss  leads  straight  up  to 
the  foot  of  the  dark  pyramid  of  the  Kesselkopf, 
and  then  in  steep  endless  zig-zags  along  the  edge 
of  the  great  glacier.  I  saw,  at  first,  the  pin- 
nacles of  ice  far  above  me,  breaking  over  the 
face  of  the  rock;  then,  after  an  hour's  breath- 
less climbing,  I  could  look  right  into  the  blue 
210 


ALPENROSEN   AND  GOAT'S  MILK 

crevasses;  and  at  last,  after  another  hour  over 
soft  snow-fields  and  broken  rocks,  I  was  at 
the  Pragerhut,  perched  on  the  shoulder  of  the 
mountain,  looking  down  upon  the  huge  river 
of  ice. 

It  was  a  magnificent  view  under  the  clear 
light  of  evening.  Here  in  front  of  us,  the  Vene- 
diger  with  all  his  brother-mountains  clustered 
about  him;  behind  us,  across  the  Tauern,  the 
mighty  chain  of  the  Glockner  against  the  east- 
ern sky. 

This  is  the  frozen  world.  Here  the  Winter, 
driven  back  into  his  stronghold,  makes  his  last 
stand  against  the  Summer,  in  perpetual  conflict, 
retreating  by  day  to  the  mountain-peak,  but 
creeping  back  at  night  in  frost  and  snow  to  re- 
gain a  little  of  his  lost  territory,  until  at  last 
the  Summer  is  wearied  out,  and  the  Winter  sweeps 
down  again  to  claim  the  whole  valley  for  his 
own. 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

VI. 

In  the  Pragerhut  I  found  mountain  comfort. 
There  were  bunks  along  the  wall  of  the  guest- 
room, with  plenty  of  blankets.  There  was  good 
store  of  eggs,  canned  meats,  and  nourishing 
black  bread.  The  friendly  goats  came  bleating 
up  to  the  door  at  nightfall  to  be  milked.  And 
in  charge  of  all  this  luxury  there  was  a  cheerful 
peasant-wife  with  her  brown-eyed  daughter,  to 
entertain  travellers.  It  was  a  pleasant  sight  to 
see  them,  as  they  sat  down  to  their  supper  with 
my  guide;  all  three  bowed  their  heads  and  said 
their  "grace  before  meat,"  the  guide  repeating 
the  longer  prayer  and  the  mother  and  daughter 
coming  in  with  the  responses.  I  went  to  bed 
with  a  warm  and  comfortable  *  feeling  about  my 
heart.  It  was  a  good  ending  for  the  day.  In 
the  morning,  if  the  weather  remained  clear,  the 
alarm-clock  was  to  wake  us  at  three  for  the 
ascent  to  the  summit. 

But  can  it  be  three  o'clock  already.  The 
gibbous  moon  still  hangs  in  the  sky  and  casts  a 


ALPENROSEN   AND   GOAT'S   MILK 

feeble  light  over  the  scene.  Ttan  up  and  away 
for  the  final  climb.  How  rough  the  path  is 
among  the  black  rocks  along  the  ridge!  Now 
we  strike  out  on  the  gently  rising  glacier,  across 
the  crust  of  snow,  picking  our  way  among  the 
crevasses,  with  the  rope  tied  about  our  waists  for 
fear  of  a  fall.  How  cold  it  is!  But  now  the 
gray  light  of  morning  dawns,  and  now  the 
beams  of  sunrise  shoot  up  behind  the  Glockner, 
and  now  the  sun  itself  glitters  into  sight.  The 
snow  grows  softer  as  we  toil  up  the  steep, 
narrow  comb  between  the  Gross-Venediger  and 
his  neighbour  the  Klein-Venediger.  At  last  we 
have  reached  our  journey's  end.  See,  the  whole 
of  the  Tyrol  is  spread  out  before  us  in  wondrous 
splendour,  as  we  stand  on  this  snowy  ridge;  and 
at  our  feet  the  Schlatten  glacier,  like  a  long> 
white  snake,  curls  down  into  the  valley. 

There  is  still  a  little  peak  above  us;  an  over- 
hanging horn  of  snow  which  the  wind  has  built 
against  the  mountain-top.  I  would  like  to  stand 
there,  just  for  a  moment.  The  guide  protests 
it  would  be  dangerous,  for  if  the  snow  should 
213 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

break  it  would  be  a  fall  of  a  thousand  feet  to 
the  glacier  on  the  northern  side.  But  let  us 
dare  the  few  steps  upward.  How  our  feet  sink! 
Is  the  snow  slipping?  Look  at  the  glacier! 
What  is  happening?  It  is  wrinkling  and  curl- 
ing backward  on  us,  serpent-like.  Its  head  rises 
far  above  us.  All  its  icy  crests  are  clashing  to- 
gether like  the  ringing  of  a  thousand  bells.  We 
are  falling!  I  fling  out  my  arm  to  grasp  the 
guide — and  awake  to  find  myself  clutching  a 
pillow  in  the  bunk.  The  alarm-clock  is  ringing 
fiercely  for  three  o'clock.  A  driving  snow-storm 
is  beating  against  the  window.  The  ground  is 
white.  Peer  through  the  clouds  as  I  may,  I 
cannot  even  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  vanished 
Gross- Venediger. 


314 


AU  LARGE 


"  Wherever  we  strayed,  the  tame  tranquil  leisure  enfolded,  us  t  day  followed 
day  in  an  order  unbroken  and  peaceful  as  the  unfolding  of  the  flowers  and 
the  silent  march  of  the  stars.  Time  no  longer  ran  like  the  few  sands  in  a 
delicate  hour-glass  held  by  a  fragile  human  hand,  but  like  a  majestic 
river  fed  by  fathomless  was,  .  .  .  We  gave  ourselves  up  to  the  sweet- 
ness of  that  unmeasured  life,  without  thought  of  yesterday  or  to-morroio ; 
we  drank  the  cup  to-day  held  to  our  lips,  and  knew  that  so  long  as  we  were 
athirst  that  draught  would  not  be  denied  us."— HAMUJOK  W.  MABIB  . 
Under  the  Tne*. 


AU  LARGE 

I  HERE  is  magic  in  words,  surely,  and  many  a 
treasure  besides  All  Baba's  is  unlocked  with  a 
verbal  key.  Some  charm  in  the  mere  sound, 
some  association  with  the  pleasant  past,  touches 
a  secret  spring.  The  bars  are  down;  the  gate 
is  open;  you  are  made  free  of  all  the  fields  of 
memory  and  fancy — by  a  word. 

Au  large!  Envoy ez  au  large!  is  the  cry  of 
the  Canadian  voyageurs  as  they  thrust  their 
paddles  against  the  shore  and  push  out  on  the 
broad  lake  for  a  journey  through  the  wilder- 
ness. Au  large!  is  what  the  man  in  the  bow  shouts 
to  the  man  in  the  stern  when  the  birch  canoe  is 
running  down  the  rapids,  and  the  water  grows 
too  broken,  and  the  rocks  too  thick,  along  the 
river-bank.  Then  the  frail  bark  must  be  driven 
out  into  the  very  centre  of  the  wild  current,  into 
the  midst  of  danger  to  find  safety,  dashing,  like 
217 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

a  frightened  colt,  along  the  smooth,  sloping  lane 
bordered  by  white  fences  of  foam. 

Au  large!  When  I  hear  that  word,  I  hear 
also  the  crisp  waves  breaking  on  pebbly  beaches, 
and  the  big  wind  rushing  through  innumerable 
trees,  and  the  roar  of  headlong  rivers  leaping 
down  the  rocks%  I  see  long  reaches  of  water 
sparkling  in  the  sun,  or  sleeping  still  between 
evergreen  walls  beneath  a  cloudy  sky;  and  the 
gleam  of  white  tents  on  the  shore;  and  the  glow 
of  firelight  dancing  through  the  woods.  I  smell 
the  delicate  vanishing  perfume  of  forest  flowers; 
and  the  incense  of  rolls  of  birch-bark,  crinkling 
and  flaring  in  the  camp-fire;  and  the  soothing 
odour  of  balsam-boughs  piled  deep  for  woodland 
beds — the  veritable  and  only  genuine  perfume 
of  the  land  of  Nod.  The  thin  shining  veil  of 
the  Northern  lights  waves  and  fades  and  brightens 
over  the  night  sky;  at  the  sound  of  the  word, 
as  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  the  curtain  rises. 
Scene,  the  Forest  of  Arden;  enter  a  party  of 
hunters. 

It  was  in  the  Lake  St.  John  country,  two 
218 


AU    LARGE 

hundred  miles  north  of  Quebec,  that  I  first  heard 
my  rustic  incantation;  and  it  seemed  to  fit  the 
region  as  if  it  had  been  made  for  it.  This  is 
not  a  little  pocket  wilderness  like  the  Adiron- 
dacks,  but  something  vast  and  primitive.  You 
do  not  cross  it,  from  one  railroad  to  another, 
by  a  line  of  hotels.  You  go  into  it  by  one  river  as 
far  as  you  like,  or  dare;  and  then  you  turn  and 
come  back  again  by  another  river,  making  haste 
to  get  out  before  your  provisions  are  exhausted. 
The  lake  itself  is  the  cradle  of  the  mighty  Sag- 
uenay:  an  inland  sea,  thirty  miles  across  and 
nearly  round,  lying  in  the  broad  limestone  basin 
north  of  the  Laurentian  Mountains.  The  south- 
ern and  eastern  shores  have  been  settled  for 
twenty  or  thirty  years;  and  the  rich  farm-land 
yields  abundant  crops  of  wheat  and  oats  and 
potatoes  to  a  community  of  industrious  habi- 
tants, who  live  in  little  modern  villages,  named 
after  the  saints  and  gathered  as  closely  as  pos- 
sible around  big  gray  stone  churches,  and  thank 
the  good  Lord  that  he  has  given  them  a  climate 
at  least  four  or  five  degrees  milder  than  Quebec. 
219 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

A  railroad,  built  through  a  region  of  granite 
hills,  which  will  never  be  tamed  to  the  plough, 
links  this  outlying  settlement  to  the  civilised 
world;  and  at  the  end  of  the  railroad  the  Hotel 
Roberval,  standing  on  a  hill  above  the  lake,  of- 
fers to  the  pampered  tourist  electric  lights,  and 
spring-beds,  and  a  wide  veranda  from  which  he 
can  look  out  across  the  water  into  the  face  of 
the  wilderness. 

Northward  and  westward  the  interminable 
forest  rolls  away  to  the  shores  of  Hudson's  Bay 
and  the  frozen  wastes  of  Labrador.  It  is  an 
immense  solitude.  A  score  of  rivers  empty  into 
the  lake;  little  ones  like  the  Pikouabi  and  La 
Pipe,  and  middle-sized  ones  like  the  Ouiatch- 
ouan  and  La  Belle  Riviere,  and  big  ones  like 
the  Mistassini  and  the  Peribonca;  and  each  of 
these  streams  is  the  clue  to  a  labyrinth  of  woods 
and  waters.  The  canoe-man  who  follows  it  far 
enough  will  find  himself  among  lakes  that  are 
not  named  on  any  map;  he  will  camp  on  virgin 
ground,  and  make  the  acquaintance  of  unsophis- 
ticated fish;  perhaps  even,  like  the  maiden  in 


AU    LARGE 

the  fairy-tale,  he  will  meet  with  the  little  bear, 
and  the  middle-sized  bear,  and  the  great  big 
bear. 

Damon  and  I  set  out  on  such  an  expedition 
shortly  after  the  nodding  lilies  in  the  Connecti- 
cut meadows  had  rung  the  noon-tide  bell  of 
summer,  and  when  the  raspberry  bushes  along 
the  line  of  the  Quebec  and  Lake  St.  John  Rail- 
way had  spread  their  afternoon  collation  for 
birds  and  men.  At  Roberval  we  found  our  four 
guides  waiting  for  us,  and  the  steamboat  took  us 
all  across  the  lake  to  the  Island  House,  at  the 
northeast  corner.  There  we  embarked  our  tents 
and  blankets,  our  pots  and  pans,  and  bags  of 
flour  and  potatoes  and  bacon  and  other  delica- 
cies, our  rods  and  guns,  and  last,  but  not  least, 
our  axes  (without  which  man  in  the  woods  if 
a  helpless  creature),  in  two  birch-bark  canoes, 
and  went  flying  down  the  Grande  Decharge. 

It  is  a  wonderful  place,  this  outlet  of  Lake 
St.  John.  All  the  floods  of  twenty  rivers  are 
gathered  here,  and  break  forth  through  a  net  of 
islands  in  a  double  stream,  divided  by  the  broad 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

He  d'Alma,  into  the  Grande  Decharge  and  the 
Petite  Decharge.  The  southern  outlet  is  small, 
and  flows  somewhat  more  quietly  at  first.  But 
the  northern  outlet  is  a  huge  confluence  and 
tumult  of  waters.  You  see  the  set  of  the  tide 
far  out  in  the  lake,  sliding,  driving,  crowding, 
hurrying!  in  with  smooth  currents  and  swirling 
eddies,  toward  the  corner  of  escape.  By  the 
rocky  cove  where  the  Island  House  peers  out 
through  the  fir-trees,  the  current  already  has  a 
perceptible  slope.  It  begins  to  boil  over  hidden 
stones  in  the  middle,  and  gurgles  at  projecting^ 
points  of  rock.  A  mile  farther  down  there  is 
an  islet  where  the  stream  quickens,  chafes,  and 
breaks  into  a  rapid.  Behind  the  islet  it  drops 
down  in  three  or  four  foaming  steps.  On  the 
outside  it  makes  one  long,  straight  rush  into  a 
line  of  white-crested  standing  waves. 

As  we  approached,  the  steersman  in  the  first 
canoe  stood  up  to  look  over  the  course.  The  sea 
was  high.  Was  it  too  high?  The  canoes  were 
heavily  loaded.  Could  they  leap  the  waves? 
There  was  a  quick  talk  among  the  guides  as  we 
222 


AU    LARGE 

slipped  along,  undecided  which  way  to  turn. 
Then  the  question  seemed  to  settle  itself,  as  most 
of  ihes*  woodland  questions  do,  as  if  some  silent 
force  of  Nature  had  the  casting-vote.  "Sautez, 
sautezJ"  cried  Ferdinand,  "envoyez  au  large!" 
In  a  moment  we  were  sliding  down  the  smooth 
back  of  the  rapid,  directJy  toward  the  first  big 
wave.  The  rocky  shore  went  by  us  like  a  dream; 
we  could  feel  the  motion  of  the  earth  whirling 
around  with  us.  The  crest  of  the  billow  in  front 
curled  above  the  bow  of  the  canoe.  tsArrSt\ 
arret\  doucement!"  A  swift  stroke  of  the  paddle 
checked  the  canoe,  quivering  and  prancing 
like  a  horse  suddenly  reined  in.  The  wave 
ahead,  as  if  surprised,  sank  and  flattened  for  a 
second.  The  canoe  leaped  through  the  edge  of 
it,  swerved  to  one  side,  and  ran  gayly  down  along 
the  fringe  of  the  line  of  billows,  into  quieter 
water. 

Every    one    feels   the   exhilaration    of  such    a 
descent.   I  know   a  lady   who   almost   cried   with 
fright  when  she  went  down  her  first  rapid,  but  be- 
fore the  voyage  was  ended  she  was  saying: — 
223 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

"Count  that  day  lost  whose  low,  descending  tun 
Sees  no  fall  leaped,  no  foaming  rapid  run." 

It  takes  a  touch  of  danger  to  bring  out  the  joy 
of  lif e. 

Our  guides  began  to  shout,  and  joke  each 
other,  and  praise  their  canoes. 

"You  grazed  that  villain  rock  at  the  corner," 
said  Jean;  "did  n't  you  know  where  it  was?" 

"Yes,  after  I  touched  it,"  cried  Ferdinand; 
"but  you  took  in  a  bucket  of  water,  and  I  sup- 
pose your  m'sieu9  is  sitting  on  a  piece  of  the 
river.  Is  it  not?" 

This  seemed  to  us  all  a  very  merry  jest, 
and  we  laughed  with  the  same  inextinguishable 
laughter  which  a  practical  joke,  according  to 
Homer,  always  used  to  raise  in  Olympus.  It  is 
one  of  the  charms  of  life  in  the  woods  that  it 
brings  back  the  high  spirits  of  boyhood  and 
renews  the  youth  of  the  world.  Plain  fun,  like 
plain  food,  tastes  good  out-of-doors.  Nectar  is 
the  sweet  sap  of  a  maple-tree.  Ambrosia  is 
only  another  name  for  well-turned  flapjacks. 
A.nd  all  the  immortals,  sitting  around  the  table 
3*4 


AU    LARGE 

of  golden  cedar-slabs,  make  merry  when  the 
clumsy  Hephaistos,  playing  the  part  of  Hebe, 
stumbles  over  a  root  and  upsets  the  plate  of 
cakes  into  the  fire. 

The  first  little  rapid  of  the  Grande  Decharge 
was  only  the  beginning.  Half  a  mile  below  we 
could  see  the  river  disappear  between  two  points 
of  rock.  There  was  a  roar  of  conflict,  and 
a  golden  mist  hanging  in  the  air,  like  the  smoke 
of  battle.  All  along  the  place  where  the  river 
sank  from  sight,  dazzling  heads  of  foam  were 
flashing  up  and  falling  back,  as  if  a  horde  of 
water-sprites  were  vainly  trying  to  fight  their 
way  up  to  the  lake.  It  was  the  top  of  the 
grande  chute,  a  wild  succession  of  falls  and 
pools  where  no  boat  could  live  for  a  moment. 
We  ran  down  toward  it  as  far  as  the  water 
served,  and  then  turned  off  among  the  rocks  on 
the  left  hand,  to  take  the  portage. 

These    portages    are    among    the    troublesome 

delights  of  a  journey  in  the  wilderness.  To  the 

guides    they    mean    hard    work,    for    everything, 

including   the    boats,   must   be    carried   on   their 

225 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

backs.  The  march  of  the  canoes  on  dry  lamd  is 
a  curious  sight.  Andrew  Marvell  described  it 
two  hundred  years  ago  when  he  was  poetizing 
beside  the  little  river  Wharf e  in  Yorkshire : — 

"And  now  the  salmon-fishers  moist 
Their  leathern  boats  begin  to  hoist, 
And  like  antipodes  in  shoes 
Have  shod  their  heads  in  their  canoes. 
How  tortoise-like t  but  none  so  slotvf 
These  rational  amphibii  go!" 

But  the  sportsman  carries  nothing,  .  except  per- 
haps his  gun,  or  his  rod,  or  his  photographic 
camera;  and  so  for  him  the  portage  is  only  a 
pleasant  opportunity  to  stretch  his  legs,  cramped 
by  sitting  in  the  canoe,  and  to  renew  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  pretty  things  that  are  in 
the  woods. 

We  sauntered  along  the  trail,  Damon  and  I, 
as  if  school  were  out  and  would  never  keep 
again.  How  fresh  and  tonic  the  forest  seemed 
as  we  plunged  into  its  bath  of  shade.  There 
were  our  old  friends  the  cedars,  with  their  roots 

**6 


AU    LARGE 

twisted  across  the  path;  and  the  white  birches, 
so  trim  in  youth  and  so  shaggy  in  age;  and  the 
sociable  spruces  and  balsams,  crowding  close 
together,  and  interlacing  their  arms  overhead. 
There  were  the  little  springs,  trickling  through 
the  moss;  and  the  slippery  logs  laid  across  the 
marshy  places;  and  the  fallen  trees,  cut  in  two 
and  pushed  aside, — for  this  was  a  much-trav- 
elled portage. 

Around  the  open  spaces,  the  tall  meadow-rue 
stood  dressed  in  robes  of  fairy  white  and  green. 
The  blue  banners  of  the  fleur-de-lis  were  planted 
beside  the  springs.  In  shady  corners,  deeper  in 
the  wood,  the  fragrant  pyrola  lifted  its  scape 
of  clustering  bells,  like  a  lily  of  the  valley  wan- 
dered to  the  forest.  When  we  came  to  the  end 
of  the  portage,  a  perfume  like  that  of  cyclamens 
in  Tyrolean  meadows  welcomed  us,  and  search- 
ing among  the  loose  glasses  by  the  water-side 
we  found  the  exquisite  purple  spikes  of  the  lesser 
fringed  orchis,  loveliest  and  most  ethereal  of 
all  the  woodland  flowers  save  one.  And  what 
one  is  that?  Ah,  my  friend,  it  is  your  own 
227 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

particular  favourite,  the  flower,  by  whatever 
name  you  call  it,  that  you  plucked  long  ago 
when  you  were  walking  in  the  forest  with  your 
sweetheart, — 

w/m  founder schonen  Monat  Mai 
Ah  alle  Knospen  sprangen." 

We  launched  our  canoes  again  on  the  great 
pool  at  the  foot  of  the  first  fall, — a  broad 
sweep  of  water  a  mile  long  and  half  a  mile  wide, 
full  of  eddies  and  strong  currents,  and  covered 
with  drifting  foam.  There  was  the  old  camp- 
ground on  the  point,  where  I  had  tented  so 
often  with  my  lady  Greygown,  fishing  for  ouan- 
aniche,  the  famous  land-locked  salmon  of  Lake 
St.  John.  And  there  were  the  big  fish,  showing 
their  back  fins  as  they  circled  lazily  around  in 
the  eddies,  as  if  they  were  waiting  to  play  with 
us.  But  the  goal  of  our  day's  journey  was 
miles  away,  and  we  swept  along  with  the  stream, 
now  through  a  rush  of  quick  water,  boiling  and 
foaming,  now  through  a  still  place  like  a  lake, 
now  through 

£28 


AU    LARGE 

"Fairy  crowds 
Of  islandst  that  together  lie. 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds." 

The  beauty  of  the  shores  was  infinitely  varied, 
and  unspoiled  by  any  sign  of  the  presence  of 
man.  We  met  no  company  except  a  few  king- 
fishers, and  a  pair  of  gulls  who  had  come  up 
from  the  sea  to  spend  the  summer,  and  a  large 
flock  of  wild  ducks,  which  the  guides  call  "Bet- 
seys," as  if  they  were  all  of  the  gentler  sex.  In 
such  a  big  family  of  girls  we  supposed  that  a 
few  would  not  be  missed,  and  Damon  bagged 
two  of  the  tenderest  for  our  supper. 

In  the  still  water  at  the  mouth  of  the  Riviere 
Mistook,  just  above  the  Rapide  aux  Cedres,  we 
went  ashore  on  a  level  wooded  bank  to  make 
our  first  camp  and  cook  our  dinner.  Let  me 
try  to  sketch  our  men  as  they  are  busied  about 
the  fire. 

They  are  all  French  Canadians  of  unmixed 
blood,  descendants  of  the  men  who  came  to  New 
France  with  Samuel  de  Champlain,  that  incom- 
£29 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

parable  old  woodsman  and  life-long  lover  of  th€ 
wilderness.  Ferdinand  Larouche  is  our  chef — • 
there  must  be  a  head  in  every  party  for  the 
sake  of  harmony — and  his  assistant  is  his  brother 
Fran9ois.  Ferdinand  is  a  stocky  little  fellow,  a 
"sawed  off"  man,  not  more  than  five  feet  two 
inches  tall,  but  every  inch  of  him  is  pure  vim. 
He  can  carry  a  big  canoe  or  a  hundred-weight 
of  camp  stuff  over  a  mile  portage  without  stop- 
ping to  take  breath.  He  is  a  capital  canoe-man, 
with  prudence  enough  to  balance  his  courage, 
and  a  fair  cook,  with  plenty  of  that  quality 
which  is  wanting  in  the  ordinary  cook  of  com- 
merce— good  humour.  Always  joking,  whistling, 
singing,  he  brings  the  atmosphere  of  a  per- 
petual holiday  along  with  him.  His  weather- 
worn coat  covers  a  heart  full  of  music.  He  has 
two  talents  which  make  him  a  marked  man 
among  his  comrades.  He  plays  the  fiddle  to  the 
delight  of  all  the  balls  and  weddings  through 
the  country-side;  and  he  speaks  English  to  the 
admiration  and  envy  of  the  other  guides.  But 
like  all  men  of  genius  he  is  modest  about  hi* 
230 


AU    LARGE 

accomplishments.  "H'l  not  spik  good  h'English 
— h'only  for  camp — fishin',  cookin',  dhe  voyage 
— h'all  dhose  t'ings."  The  aspirates  puzzle  him. 
He  can  get  through  a  slash  of  fallen  timber 
more  easily  than  a  sentence  full  of  "this"  and 
"that."  Sometimes  he  expresses  his  meaning 
queerly.  He  was  telling  me  once  about  his 
farm,  "not  far  off  here,  in  dhe  Riviere  au 
Cochon,  river  of  dhe  pig,  you  call  'im.  H'l  am 
a  widow,  got  five  sons,  free  of  dhem  are  girls." 
But  he  usually  ends  by  falling  back  into  French, 
which,  he  assures  you,  you  speak  to  perfection, 
"much  better  than  the  Canadians;  the  French 
of  Paris  in  short — M'sieu5  has  been  in  Paris?" 
Such  courtesy  is  born  in  the  blood,  and  is  irre- 
sistible. You  cannot  help  returning  the  compli- 
ment and  assuring  him  that  his  English  is 
remarkable,  good  enough  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses, better  than  any  of  the  other  guides  can 
speak.  And  so  it  is. 

Fran9ois    is    a    little    taller,    a    little    thinner, 
and    considerably    quieter    than    Ferdinand.    He 
laughs  loyally  at   his  brother's  jokes,  and  sings 
231 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  response  to  his  songs,  and  wields  a  good 
second  paddle  in  the  canoe. 

Jean — commonly  called  Johnny — Morel  is 
a  tall,  strong  man  of  fifty,  with  a  bushy  red 
beard  that  would  do  credit  to  a  pirate.  But 
when  you  look  at  him  more  closely,  you  see 
that  he  has  a  clear,  kind  blue  eye  and  a  most 
honest,  friendly  face  under  his  slouch  hat.  He 
has  travelled  these  woods  and  waters  for  thirty 
years,  so  that  he  knows  the  way  through  them 
by  a  thousand  familiar  signs,  as  well  as  you 
know  the  streets  of  the  city.  He  is  our  path- 
finder. 

The  bow  paddle  in  his  canoe  is  held  by  his 
son  Joseph,  a  lad  not  quite  fifteen,  but  already 
as  tall,  and  almost  as  strong  as  a  man.  "He 
is  yet  of  the  youth,"  said  Johnny,  "and  he 
knows  not  the  affairs  of  the  camp.  This  trip 
is  for  him  the  first — it  is  his  school — but  I 
hope  he  will  content  you.  He  is  good,  M'sieu', 
and  of  the  strongest  for  his  age.  I  have  edu- 
cated already  two  sons  in  the  bow  of  my  canoe. 
The  oldest  has  gone  to  Pennsylvanie;  he  peels 


AU    LARGE 

the  bark  there  for  the  tanning  of  leather.  The 
second  had  the  misfortune  of  breaking  his  leg, 
so  that  he  can  no  longer  kneel  to  paddle.  He 
has  descended  to  the  making  of  shoes.  Joseph 
is  my  third  pupil.  And  I  have  still  a  younger 
one  at  home  waiting  to  come  into  my  school." 

A  touch  of  family  life  like  that  is  always  re- 
freshing, and  doubly  so  in  the  wilderness.  For 
what  is  fatherhood  at  its  best,  everywhere,  but 
the  training  of  good  men  to  take  the  teacher's 
place  when  his  work  is  done?  Some  day,  when 
Johnny's  rheumatism  has  made  his  joints  a  little 
stiffer  and  his  eyes  have  lost  something  of  their 
keenness,  he  will  be  wielding  the  second  paddle 
in  the  boat,  and  going  out  only  on  the  short 
and  easy  trips.  It  will  be  young  Joseph  that  steers 
the  canoe  through  the  dangerous  places,  and 
carries  the  heaviest  load  over  the  portages,  and 
leads  the  way  on  the  long  journeys. 

It  has  taken  me  longer  to  describe  our  men 

than  it  took  them  to  prepare  our  frugal  meal: 

a  pot  of  tea,  the  woodsman's  favourite  drink,  (I 

never   knew    a    good    guide    that   would    not    go 

233 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

without  whisky  rather  than  without  tea,)  a  few 
slices  of  toast  and  juicy  rashers  of  bacon,  a  ket- 
tle of  boiled  potatoes,  and  a  relish  of  crackers 
and  cheese.  We  were  in  a  hurry  to  be  off  for  an 
afternoon's  fishing,  three  or  four  miles  down  the 
river,  at  the  lie  Maligne. 

The  island  is  well  named,  for  it  is  the  most 
perilous  place  on  the  river,  and  has  a  record  of 
disaster  and  death.  The  scattered  waters  of 
the  Discharge  are  drawn  together  here  into 
one  deep,  narrow,  powerful  stream,  flowing  be- 
tween gloomy  shores  of  granite.  In  mid-channel 
the  wicked  island  shows  its  scarred  and  bristling 
head,  like  a  giant  ready  to  dispute  the  passage. 
The  river  rushes  straight  at  the  rocky  brow, 
splits  into  two  currents,  and  raves  away  on  both 
sides  of  the  island  in  a  double  chain  of  furious 
falls  and  rapids. 

In  these  wild  waters  we  fished  with  immense 
delight  and  fair  success,  scrambling  down  among 
the  huge  rocks  along  the  shore,  and  joining  the 
excitement  of  an  Alpine  climb  with  the  placid 
pleasures  of  angling.  At  nightfall  we  were  at 


AU    LARGE 

home  again  in  our  camp,  with  half  a  score  of 
ouananiche,  weighing  from  one  to  four  pounds 
each. 

Our  next  day's  journey  was  long  and  varie- 
gated. A  portage  of  a  mile  or  two  across  the 
He  d'Alma,  with  a  cart  to  haul  our  canoes  and 
stuff,  brought  us  to  the  Little  Discharge,  down 
which  we  floated  for  a  little  way,  and  then 
hauled  through  the  village  of  St.  Joseph  to  the 
foot  of  the  Carcajou,  or  Wildcat  Falls.  A  mile 
of  quick  water  was  soon  passed,  and  we  came  to 
the  junction  of  the  Little  Discharge  with  the 
Grand  Discharge  at  the  point  where  the  pictu- 
resque club-house  stands  in  a  grove  of  birches  be- 
side the  big  Vache  Caille  Falls.  It  is  lively  work 
crossing  the  pool  here,  when  the  water  is  high 
and  the  canoes  are  heavy;  but  we  went  through 
the  labouring  seas  safely,  and  landed  some  dis- 
tance below,  at  the  head  of  the  Rapide  Gervais, 
to  eat  our  lunch.  The  water  was  too  rough  to 
run  down  with  loaded  boats,  so  Damon  and  I  had 
to  walk  about  three  miles  along  the  river-bank, 
while  the  men  went  down  with  the  canoes. 
235 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

On  our  way  beside  the  rapids,  Damon  geolo- 
gised, finding  the  marks  of  ancient  glaciers,  and 
bits  of  iron-ore,  and  pockets  of  sand  full  of  in- 
finitesimal garnets,  and  specks  of  gold  washed 
from  the  primitive  granite;  and  I  fished,  pick- 
ing up  a  pair  of  ouananiche  in  foam-covered 
nooks  among  the  rocks.  The  swift  water  was 
almost  passed  when  we  embarked  again  and  ran 
down  the  last  slope  into  a  long  deadwater. 

The  shores,  at  first  bold  and  rough,  covered 
with  dense  thickets  of  second-growth  timber, 
now  became  smoother  and  more  fertile.  Scat- 
tered farms,  with  square,  unpainted  houses,  and 
long,  thatched  barns,  began  to  creep  over  the 
hills  toward  the  river.  There  was  a  hamlet, 
called  St.  Charles,  with  a  rude  little  church  and 
a  campanile  of  logs.  The  cure,  robed  in  decent 
black  and  wearing  a  tall  silk  hat  of  the  vintage 
of  1860,  sat  on  the  veranda  of  his  trim  pres- 
bytery, looking  down  upon  us,  like  an  image 
of  propriety  smiling  at  Bohemianism.  Other 
craft  appeared  on  the  river.  A  man  and  his 
wife  paddling  an  old  dugout,  with  half  a  dozen 
236 


AU    LARGE 

children  packed  in  amidships;  a  crew  of  lum- 
bermen, in  a  sharp-nosed  bateau,  picking  up 
stray  logs  along  the  banks;  a  couple  of  boat- 
loads of  young  people  returning  merrily  from  a 
holiday  visit;  a  party  of  berry-pickers  in  a  flat- 
bottomed  skiff;  all  the  life  of  the  country-side 
was  in  evidence  on  the  river.  We  felt  quite  as 
if  we  had  been  "in  the  swim"  of  society,  when 
at  length  we  reached  the  point  where  the 
Riviere  des  Aunes  came  tumbling  down  a 
hundred- foot  ladder  of  broken  black  rocks. 
There  we  pitched  our  tents  in  a  strip  of  meadow 
by  the  water-side,  where  we  could  have  the 
sound  of  the  falls  for  a  slumber-song  all  night 
and  the  whole  river  for  a  bath  at  sunrise. 

A  sparkling  draught  of  crystal  weather  was 
poured  into  our  stirrup-cup  in  the  morning, 
as  we  set  out  for  a  drive  of  fifteen  miles  across 
country  to  the  Riviere  a  1'Ours,  a  tributary  of 
the  crooked,  unnavigable  river  of  Alders.  The 
canoes  and  luggage  were  loaded  on  a  couple  of 
charrettes,  or  two-wheeled  carts.  But  for  us 
and  the  guides  there  were  two  quatre-roues,  the 
237 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

eypical  vehicles  of  the  century,  as  characteristic 
of  Canada  as  the  carriole  is  of  Norway.  It  is 
a  two-seated  buckboard,  drawn  by  one  horse,  and 
the  back  seat  is  covered  with  a  hood  like  an  old- 
fashioned  poke  bonnet.  The  road  is  of  clay  and 
always  rutty.  It  runs  level  for  a  while,  and 
then  jumps  up  a  steep  ridge  and  down  again,  or 
into  a  deep  gully  and  out  again.  The  habitant's 
idea  of  good  driving  is  to  let  his  horse  slide 
down  the  hill  and  gallop  up.  This  imparts  a 
spasmodic  quality  to  the  motion,  like  Carlyle's 
style. 

The  native  houses  are  strung  along  the  road. 
The  modern  pattern  has  a  convex  angle  in  the 
roof,  and  dormer-windows;  it  is  a  rustic  adap- 
tation of  the  Mansard.  The  antique  pattern, 
which  is  far  more  picturesque,  has  a  concave 
curve  in  the  roof,  and  the  eaves  project  like  eye- 
brows, shading  the  flatness  of  the  face.  Paint  is 
a  rarity.  The  prevailing  colour  is  the  soft  gray 
of  weather-beaten  wood.  Sometimes,  in  the  bet- 
tej  class  of  houses,  a  gallery  is  built  across 
the  front  and  around  one  side,  and  a  square  of 
238 


AU    LARGE 

garden  is  fenced  in,  with  dahlias  and  hollyhocks 
and  marigolds,  and  perhaps  a  struggling  rose- 
bush, and  usually  a  small  patch  of  tobacco  grow- 
ing in  one  corner.  Once  in  a  long  while  you 
may  see  a  balm-of-Gilead  tree,  or  a  clump  of 
sapling  poplars,  planted  near  the  door. 

How  much  better  it  would  have  been  if  the 
farmer  had  left  a  few  of  the  noble  forest-trees  to 
shade  his  house.  But  then,  when  the  farmer 
came  into  the  wilderness  he  was  not  a  farmer, 
he  was  first  of  all  a  wood-chopper.  He  regarded 
the  forest  as  a  stubborn  enemy  in  possession 
of  his  land.  He  attacked  it  with  fire  and  axe 
and  exterminated  it,  instead  of  keeping  a  few 
captives  to  hold  their  green  umbrellas  over 
his  head  when  at  last  his  grain  fields  should  be 
smiling  around  him  and  he  should  sit  down 
on  his  doorstep  to  smoke  a  pipe  of  home-grown 
tobacco. 

In  the  time  of  adversity  one   should   prepare 

for  prosperity.   I  fancy  there  are  a  good  many 

people    unconsciously    repeating    the    mistake    of 

the    Canadian    farmer — chopping    down    all    the 

239 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

native  growths  of  life,  clearing  the  ground  of 
all  the  useless  pretty  things  that  seem  to  cumber 
it,  sacrificing  everything  to  utility  and  success. 
We  fell  the  last  green  tree  for  the  sake  of  rais- 
ing an  extra  hill  of  potatoes;  and  never  stop  to 
think  what  an  ugly,  barren  place  we  may  have 
to  sit  in  while  we  eat  them.  The  ideals,  the 
attachments — yes,  even  the  dreams  of  youth  are 
worth  saving.  For  the  artificial  tastes  with 
which  age  tries  to  make  good  their  loss  grow 
very  slowly  and  cast  but  a  slender  shade. 

Most  of  the  Canadian  farmhouses  have  their 
ovens  out-of-doors.  We  saw  them  everywhere; 
rounded  edifices  of  clay,  raised  on  a  foundation 
of  logs,  and  usually  covered  with  a  pointed 
roof  of  boards.  They  looked  like  little  family 
chapels — and  so  they  were;  shrines  where  the 
ritual  of  the  good  housewife  was  celebrated,  and 
the  gift  of  daily  bread,  having  been  honestly 
earned,  was  thankfully  received. 

At  one  house   we  noticed  a  curious  fragment 
of  domestic  economy.  Half  a  pig  was  suspended 
over  the   chimney,   and   the    smoke   of   the   sum- 
240 


AU    LARGE 

mer  fire  was  turned  to  account  in  curing  the 
winter's  meat.  I  guess  the  children  of  that  family 
had  a  peculiar  fondness  for  the  parental  roof- 
tree.  We  saw  them  making  mud-pies  in  the 
road,  and  imagined  that  they  looked  lovingly 
up  at  the  pendent  porker,  outlined  against 
the  sky, — a  sign  of  promise,  prophetic  of 
bacon. 

About  noon  the  road  passed  beyond  the  region 
of  habitation  into  a  barren  land,  where  blue- 
berries were  the  only  crop,  and  partridges  took 
the  place  of  chickens.  Through  this  rolling 
gravelly  plain,  sparsely  wooded  and  glowing  with 
the  tall  magenta  bloom  of  the  fireweed,  we  drove 
toward  the  mountains,  until  the  road  went  to 
seed  and  we  could  follow  it  no  longer.  Then  we 
took  to  the  water  and  began  to  pole  our  canoes 
up  the  River  of  the  Bear.  It  was  a  clear,  amber- 
coloured  stream,  not  more  than  ten  or  fifteen 
yards  wide,  running  swift  and  strong,  over  beds 
of  sand  and  rounded  pebbles.  The  canoes 
went  wallowing  and  plunging  up  the  narrow 
channel,  between  thick  banks  of  alders,  like 
241 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

clumsy  sea-monsters.  All  the  grace  with  which 
they  move  under  the  strokes  of  the  paddle,  in 
large  waters,  was  gone.  They  looked  uncouth 
and  predatory,  like  a  pair  of  seals  that  I  once 
saw  swimming  far  up  the  river  Ristigouche  in 
chase  of  fish.  From  the  bow  of  each  canoe  the 
landing-net  stuck  out  as  a  symbol  of  destruction 
— after  the  fashion  of  the  Dutch  admiral  who 
nailed  a  broom  to  his  masthead.  But  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  sweep  the  trout  out  of 
that  little  river  by  any  fair  method  of  angling, 
for  there  were  millions  of  them;  not  large,  but 
lively,  and  brilliant,  and  fat;  they  leaped  in 
every  bend  of  the  stream.  We  trailed  our  flies, 
and  made  quick  casts  here  and  there,  as  we  went 
along.  It  was  fishing  on  the  wing.  And  when 
we  pitched  our  tents  in  a  hurry  at  nightfall  on 
the  low  shore  of  Lac  Sale,  among  the  bushes 
where  firewood  was  scarce  and  there  were  no 
sapms  for  the  beds,  we  were  comforted  for  the 
poorness  of  the  camp-ground  by  the  excellence 
of  the  trout  supper. 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  night  for  August.  There 
&4B 


AU    LARGE 

was  a  skin  of  ice  on  the  water-pail  at  daybreak. 
We  were  glad  to  be  up  and  away  for  an  early 
start.  The  river  grew  wilder  and  more  diffi- 
cult. There  were  rapids,  and  ruined  dams  built 
by  the  lumbermen  years  ago.  At  these  places 
the  trout  were  larger,  and  so  plentiful  that  it 
was  easy  to  hook  two  at  a  cast.  It  came  on  to 
rain  furiously  while  we  were  eating  our  lunch. 
But  we  did  not  seem  to  mind  it  any  more  than 
the  fish  did.  Here  and  there  the  river  was  com- 
pletely blocked  by  fallen  trees.  The  guides 
called  it  bouchee,  "corked,"  and  leaped  out 
gayly  into  the  water  with  their  axes  to  "un- 
cork" it.  We  passed  through  some  pretty  lakes, 
unknown  to  the  map-makers,  and  arrived,  before 
sundown,  at  the  Lake  of  the  Bear,  where  we 
were  to  spend  a  couple  of  days.  The  lake  was 
full  of  floating  logs,  and  the  water,  raised  by 
the  heavy  rains  and  the  operations  of  the  lum- 
bermen, was  several  feet  above  its  usual  level. 
Nature's  landing-places  were  all  blotted  out, 
and  we  had  to  explore  halfway  around  the  shore 
before  we  could  get  out  comfortably.  We  raised 
£43 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  tents  on  a  small  shoulder  of  a  hill,  a  few 
rods  above  the  water;  and  a  glorious  camp-fire 
of  birch  logs  soon  made  us  forget  our  misery 
as  though  it  had  not  been. 

The  name  of  the  Lake  of  the  Beautiful  Trout 
made  us  desire  to  visit  it.  The  portage  was  said 
to  be  only  fifty  acres  long  (the  arpent  is  the 
popular  measure  of  distance  here),  but  it  passed 
over  a  ridge  of  newly  burned  land,  and  was  so 
entangled  with  ruined  woods  and  desolate  of 
birds  and  flowers  that  it  seemed  to  us  at  least 
five  miles.  The  lake  was  charming — a  sheet  of 
singularly  clear  water,  of  a  pale  green  tinge, 
surrounded  by  wooded  hills.  In  the  translucent 
depths  trout  and  pike  live  together,  but  whether 
in  peace  or  not  I  cannot  tell.  Both  of  them 
grow  to  an  enormous  size,  but  the  pike  are 
larger  and  have  more  capacious  jaws.  One  of 
them  broke  my  tackle  and  went  off  with  a  sil- 
ver spoon  in  his  mouth,  as  if  he  had  been  born 
to  it.  Of  course  the  guides  vowed  that  they 
saw  him  as  he  passed  under  the  canoe,  and 
declared  that  he  must  weigh  thirty  or  forty 
244 


AU    LARGE 

pounds.  The  spectacles  of  regret  always  mag- 
nify. 

The  trout  were  coy.  We  took  only  five  of 
them,  perfect  specimens  of  the  true  Salvelinm 
fontinalis,  with  square  tails,  and  carmine  spots 
on  their  dark,  mottled  sides;  the  largest  weighed 
three  pounds  and  three-quarters,  and  the  others 
were  almost  as  heavy. 

On  our  way  back  to  the  camp  we  found  the  port- 
age beset  by  innumerable  and  bloodthirsty  foes. 
There  are  four  grades  of  insect  malignity  in  the 
woods.  The  mildest  is  represented  by  the  winged 
idiot  that  John  Burroughs'  little  boy  called  a 
"blunderhead."  He  dances  stupidly  before  your 
face,  as  if  lost  in  admiration,  and  finishes 
his  pointless  tale  by  getting  in  your  eye,  or  down 
your  throat.  The  next  grade  is  represented  by 
the  midges.  "Bite  'em  no  see  'em,"  is  the  Ind- 
ian name  for  these  invisible  atoms  of  animated 
pepper  which  settle  upon  you  in  the  twilight 
and  make  your  skin  burn  like  fire.  But  their 
hour  is  brieft  and  when  they  depart  they  leave 
not  a  bump  behind.  One  step  lower  in  the 
245 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

scale  we  find  the  mosquito,  or  rather  he  finds 
us,  and  makes  his  poisoned  mark  upon  our 
skin.  But  after  all,  he  has  his  good  qualities. 
The  mosquito  is  a  gentlemanly  pirate.  He  car- 
ries his  weapon  openly,  and  gives  notice  of  an 
attack.  He  respects  the  decencies  of  life,  and 
does  not  strike  below  the  belt,  or  creep  down 
the  back  of  your  neck.  But  the  black  fly  is  at 
the  bottom  of  the  moral  scale.  He  is  an  un- 
mitigated ruffian,  the  plug-ugly  of  the  woods. 
He  looks  like  a  tiny,  immature  house-fly,  with 
white  legs  as  if  he  must  be  innocent.  But,  in 
fact,  he  crawls  like  a  serpent  and  bites  like  a 
dog.  No  portion  of  the  human  frame  is  sacred 
from  his  greed.  He  takes  his  pound  of  flesh 
anywhere,  and  does  not  scruple  to  take  the 
blood  with  it.  As  a  rule  you  can  defend  your- 
self, to  some  degree,  against  him,  by  wearing  a 
head-net,  tying  your  sleeves  around  your  wrists 
and  your  trousers  around  your  ankles,  and 
anointing  yourself  with  grease,  flavoured  with 
pennyroyal,  for  which  cleanly  and  honest  scent 
he  has  a  coarse  aversion.  But  sometimes,  espe- 
£46 


AU    LARGE 

cially  on  burned  land,  about  the  middle  of  a 
warm  afternoon,  when  a  rain  is  threatening, 
the  horde  of  black  flies  descend  in  force 
and  fury  knowing  that  their  time  is  short.  Then 
there  is  no  escape.  Suits  of  chain  armour,  Nu- 
bian ointments  of  far-smelling  potency,  would 
not  save  you.  You  must  do  as  our  guides  did 
on  the  portage,  submit  to  fate  and  walk  along 
in  heroic  silence,  like  Marco  Bozzaris  "bleeding 
at  every  pore," — or  do  as  Damon  and  I  did, 
break  into  ejaculations  and  a  run,  until  you 
reach  a  place  where  you  can  light  a  smudge 
and  hold  your  head  over  it. 

"And  yet,**  said  my  comrade,  as  we  sat  cough- 
ing and  rubbing  our  eyes  in  the  painful  shel-» 
ter  of  the  smoke,  "there  are  worse  trials  than 
this  in  the  civilised  districts:  social  enmities, 
and  newspaper  scandals,  and  religious  persecu- 
tions. The  blackest  fly  I  ever  saw  is  the  Rev- 
erend   "  but  here  his  voice  was  fortunately 

choked  by  a  fit  of  coughing. 

A  couple  of  wandering  Indians — descendants 
of  the  Montagnais,  on  whose  hunting  domain 
247 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

we  were  travelling — dropped  in  at  our  camp 
that  night  as  we  sat  around  the  fire.  They  gave 
us  the  latest  news  about  the  portages  on  our 
further  journey;  how  far  they  had  been  blocked 
with  fallen  trees,  and  whether  the  water  was 
high  or  low  in  the  rivers — just  as  a  visitor  at 
home  would  talk  about  the  effect  of  the  strikes 
on  the  stock  market,  and  the  prospects  of  the 
newest  organization  of  the  non-voting  classes  for 
the  overthrow  of  Tammany  Hall.  Every  phase 
of  civilisation  or  barbarism  creates  its  own  con- 
versational currency.  The  weather,  like  the 
old  Spanish  dollar,  is  the  only  coin  that  passes 
everywhere. 

But  our  Indians  did  not  carry  much  small 
change  about  them.  They  were  dark,  silent 
chaps,  soon  talked  out;  and  then  they  sat  suck- 
ing their  pipes  before  the  fire,  (as  dumb  as  their 
own  wooden  effigies  in  front  of  a  tobacconist's 
shop,)  until  the  spirit  moved  them,  and  they 
vanished  in  their  canoe  down  the  dark  lake. 
Our  own  guides  were  very  different.  They  were 
as  full  of  conversation  as  a  spruce-tree  is  of  gum. 


AU    LARGE 

When  all  shallower  themes  were  exhausted  they 
would  discourse  of  bears  and  canoes  and  lumber 
and  fish,  forever.  After  Damon  and  I  had  left 
the  fire  and  rolled  ourselves  in  the  blankets 
in  our  own  tent,  we  could  hear  the  men  going 
on  and  on  with  their  simple  jests  and  endless 
tales  of  adventure,  until  sleep  drowned  their 
voices. 

It  was  the  sound  of  a  French  chanson  that 
woke  us  early  on  the  morning  of  our  departure 
from  the  Lake  of  the  Bear.  A  gang  of  lumber- 
men were  bringing  a  lot  of  logs  through  the 
lake.  Half-hidden  in  the  cold  gray  mist  that 
usually  betokens  a  fine  day,  and  wet  to  the  waist 
from  splashing  about  after  their  unwieldy  flock, 
these  rough  fellows  were  singing  at  their  work 
as  cheerfully  as  a  party  of  robins  in  a  cherry- 
tree  at  sunrise.  It  was  like  the  miller  and  the 
two  girls  whom  Wordsworth  saw  dancing  in  their 
boats  on  the  Thames : 

"They  dance  not  for  me. 
Yet  mine  is  their  glee! 
'Shus  pleasure  is  spread  through  the  earth 
249 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

In  stray  gifts  to  be  claimed  by  whoever  shall  find; 
Thus  a  rich  loving-kindness,  redundantly  kind, 
Moves  all  nature  to  gladness  and  mirth" 

But  our  later  thoughts  of  the  lumbermen  were 
not  altogether  grateful,  when  we  arrived  that 
day,  after  a  mile  of  portage,  at  the  little  Riviere 
Blanche,  upon  which  we  had  counted  to  float  us 
down  to  Lac  Tchitagama,  and  found  that  they 
had  stolen  all  its  water  to  float  their  logs  down 
the  Lake  of  the  Bear.  The  poor  little  river  was 
as  dry  as  a  theological  novel.  There  was  noth- 
ing left  of  it  except  the  bed  and  the  bones;  it 
was  like  a  Connecticut  stream  in  the  middle  of 
August.  All  its  pretty  secrets  were  laid  bare; 
all  its  music  was  hushed.  The  pools  that  lin- 
gered among  the  rocks  seemed  like  big  tears; 
and  the  voice  of  the  forlorn  rivulets  that  trickled 
in  here  and  there,  seeking  the  parent  stream,  was 
a  voice  of  weeping  and  complaint. 

For  us   the   loss   meant   a   hard   day's   work, 

scrambling   over   slippery    stones,   and   splashing 

through  puddles,  and  forcing  a  way  through  the 

tangled  thickets  on  the  bank,  instead  of  a  pleas- 

250 


AU    LARGE 

ant  two  hours'  run  on  a  swift  current.  We  ate 
our  dinner  on  a  sandbank  in  what  was  once  the 
middle  of  a  pretty  pond;  and  entered,  as  the 
sun  was  sinking,  a  narrow  wooded  gorge  between 
the  hills,  completely  filled  by  a  chain  of  small 
lakes,  where  travelling  became  easy  and  pleasant. 
The  steep  shores,  clothed  with  cedar  and  black 
spruce  and  dark-blue  fir-trees,  rose  sheer  from 
the  water;  the  passage  from  lake  to  lake  was  a 
tiny  rapid  a  few  yards  long,  gurgling  through 
mossy  rocks;  at  the  foot  of  the  chain  there  was 
a  longer  rapid,  with  a  portage  beside  it.  We 
emerged  from  the  dense  bush  suddenly  and  found 
ourselves  face  to  face  with  Lake  Tchitagama. 

How  the  heart  expands  at  such  a  view!  Nine 
miles  of  shining  water  lay  stretched  before  us, 
opening  through  the  mountains  that  guarded  it 
on  both  sides  with  lofty  walls  of  green  and  gray, 
ridge  over  ridge,  point  beyond  point,  until  the 
vista  ended  in 

"Yon  orange  sunset  waning  alow." 

At  a  moment  like  this  one  feels  a  sense  of  exul- 
tation. It  is  a  new  discovery  of  the  joy  of  liv« 
251 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

ing.  And  yet,  my  friend  and  I  confessed  to  each 
other,  there  was  a  tinge  of  sadness,  an  inexpli- 
cable regret  mingled  with  our  joy.  Was  it  the 
thought  of  how  few  human  eyes  had  even  seen 
that  lovely  vision?  Was  it  the  dim  foreboding 
that  we  might  never  see  it  again?  Who  can 
explain  the  secret  pathos  of  Nature's  loveliness? 
It  is  a  touch  of  melancholy  inherited  from  our 
mother  Eve.  It  is  an  unconscious  memory  of 
the  lost  Paradise.  It  is  the  sense  that  even  if 
we  should  find  another  Eden,  we  would  not  be 
fit  to  enjoy  it  perfectly,  nor  stay  in  it  forever. 

Our  first  camp  on  Tchitagama  was  at  the  sun- 
rise end  of  the  lake,  in  a  bay  paved  with  small 
round  stones,  laid  close  together  and  beaten 
firmly  down  by  the  waves.  There,  and  along 
the  shores  below,  at  the  mouth  of  a  little  river 
that  foamed  in  over  a  ledge  of  granite,  and  in 
the  shadow  of  cliffs  of  limestone  and  feldspar, 
we  trolled  and  took  many  fish:  pike  of  enormous 
size,  fresh-water  sharks,  devourers  of  nobler 
game,  fit  only  to  kill  and  throw  away;  huge  old 
trout  of  six  or  seven  pounds,  with  broad  tails 
£53 


AU    LARGE 

and  hooked  jaws,  fine  fighters  and  poor  food 
stupid,  wide-mouthed  chub — ouitouche*  the  Ind- 
ians call  them — biting  at  hooks  that  were  not 
baited  for  them;  and  best  of  all,  high-bred 
ouananiche,  pleasant  to  capture  and  delicate  to 
eat. 

Our  second  camp  was  on  a  sandy  point  at  the 
sunset  end  of  the  lake — a  fine  place  for  bath- 
ing, and  convenient  to  the  wild  meadows  and 
blueberry  patches,  where  Damon  went  to  hunt 
for  bears.  He  did  not  find  any;  but  once  he 
heard  a  great  noise  in  the  bushes,  which  he 
thought  was  a  bear;  and  he  declared  that  he 
got  quite  as  much  excitement  out  of  it  as  if  it 
had  had  four  legs  and  a  mouthful  of  teeth. 

He  brought  back  from  one  of  his  expeditions 
an  Indian  letter,  which  he  had  found  in  a  cleft 
stick  by  the  river.  It  was  a  sheet  of  birch-bark 
with  a  picture  drawn  on  it  in  charcoal;  five  Ind- 
ians in  a  canoe  paddling  up  the  river,  and  one 
in  another  canoe  pointing  in  another  direction; 
we  read  it  as  a  message  left  by  a  hunting  party, 
telling  their  companions  not  to  go  on  up  the 
253 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

river,  because  it  was  already  occupied,  but  to 
turn  off  on  a  side  stream. 

There  was  a  sign  of  a  different  kind  nailed  to 
an  old  stump  behind  our  camp.  It  was  the  top 
of  a  soap-box,  with  an  inscription  after  this 
fashion: 

AD.  MEYER  &  B.  LEVITI 

SOAP  Mfrs.  N.  Y. 

CAMPED  HERE  JULY  18 — 

1  TROUT  17%  POUNDS.    II  OUAH 

ANISHES  18%  POUNDS.    ONE 

PIKE  147%  LBS. 

There  was  a  combination  of  piscatorial  pride 
and  mercantile  enterprise  in  this  quaint  device, 
that  took  our  fancy.  It  suggested  also  a  curious 
question  of  psychology  in  regard  to  the  inhibi- 
tory influence  of  horses  and  fish  upon  the  human 
nerve  of  veracity.  We  named  the  place  "Point 
Ananias." 

And  yet,  in   fact,  it  was  a   wild  and  lonely 
spot,  and  not  even  the  Hebrew  inscription  could 
spoil   the   sense   of   solitude  that  surroundt1    ua 
354 


AU    LARGE 

when  the  night  came,  and  the  storm  howlea 
across  the  lake,  and  the  darkness  encircled  us 
with  a  wall  that  only  seemed  the  more  dense  and 
impenetrable  as  the  firelight  blazed  and  leaped 
within  the  black  ring. 

"How  far  away  is  the  nearest  house, 
Johnny?" 

"I  don't  know;  fifty  miles,  I  suppose.** 

"And  what  would  you  do  if  the  canoes  were 
burned,  or  if  a  tree  fell  and  smashed  them  ?" 

"Well,  I'd  say  a  Pater  noster,  and  take  bread 
and  bacon  enough  for  four  days,  and  an  axe,  and 
plenty  of  matches,  and  make  a  straight  line 
through  the  woods.  But  it  would  n*t  be  a  joke, 
M'sieu*,  I  can  tell  you." 

The  river  Peribonca,  into  which  Lake  Tchi- 
tagama  flows  without  a  break,  is  the  noblest  of 
all  the  streams  that  empty  into  Lake  St.  John. 
It  is  said  to  be  more  than  three  hundred  miles 
long,  and  at  the  mouth  of  the  lake  it  is  per- 
haps a  thousand  feet  wide,  flowing  with  a  deep, 
still  current  through  the  forest.  The  dead- 
water  lasted  for  several  miles;  then  the  river 
255 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

sloped  into  a  rapid,  spread  through  a  net  of 
islands,  and  broke  over  a  ledge  in  a  cataract. 
Another  quiet  stretch  was  followed  by  another 
fall,  and  so  on,  along  the  whole  course  of  the 
river. 

We  passed  three  of  these  falls  in  the  first 
day's  voyage  (by  portages  so  steep  and  rough 
that  an  Adirondack  guide  would  have  turned 
gray  at  the  sight  of  them),  and  camped  at  night 
just  below  the  Chute  du  Diable,  where  we 
found  some  ouananiche  in  the  foam.  Our  tents 
were  on  an  islet,  and  all  around  we  saw  the 
primeval,  savage  beauty  of  a  world  unmarred 
by  man. 

The  river  leaped,  shouting,  down  its  double 
stairway  of  granite,  rejoicing  like  a  strong  man 
to  run  a  race.  The  after-glow  in  the  western 
sky  deepened  from  saffron  to  violet  among  the 
tops  of  the  cedars,  and  over  the  cliffs  rose 
the  moonlight,  paling  the  heavens  but  glorifying 
the  earth.  There  was  something  large  and  gen- 
erous and  untrammelled  in  the  scene,  recalling  one 
of  Walt  Whitman's  rhapsodies : — 
256 


AU    LARGE 

"Earth  of  departed  sunsets!  Earth  of  the  mountains 

misty-topped! 
Earth  of  the  vitreous  pour  of  the  full  moon  just 

tinged  with  blue! 
Earth  of  shine  and  dark,  mottling  the  tide  of  the 

river!" 

All  the  next  day  we  went  down  with  the 
current.  Regiments  of  black  spruce  stood  in 
endless  files  like  grenadiers,  each  tree  capped 
with  a  thick  tuft  of  matted  cones  and  branches. 
Tall  white  birches  leaned  out  over  the  stream, 
Narcissus-like,  as  if  to  see  their  own  beauty  in 
the  moving  mirror.  There  were  touches  of 
colour  on  the  banks,  the  ragged  pink  flowers  of 
the  Joe-Pye-weed  (which  always  reminds  me  of  a 
happy,  good-natured  tramp),  and  the  yellow  ear- 
drops of  the  jewel-weed,  and  the  intense  blue  of 
the  closed  gentian,  that  strange  flower  which, 
like  a  reticent  heart,  never  opens  to  the  light. 
Sometimes  the  river  spread  out  like  a  lake, 
between  high  bluffs  of  sand  fully  a  mile  apart; 
and  again  it  divided  into  many  channels,  wind- 
ing cunningly  down  among  the  islands  as  if  it 
257 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

were  resolved  to  slip  around  the  next  barrier  of 
rock  without  a  fall.  There  were  eight  of  these 
huge  natural  dams  in  the  course  of  that  day's 
journey.  Sometimes  we  followed  one  of  the 
side  canals,  and  made  the  portage  at  a  distance 
from  the  main  cataract;  and  sometimes  we  ran 
with  the  central  current  to  the  very  brink  of  the 
clwte,  darting  aside  just  in  time  to  escape  going 
over.  At  the  foot  of  the  last  fall  we  made 
our  camp  on  a  curving  beach  of  sand,  and  spent 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon  in  fishing. 

It  was  interesting  to  see  how  closely  the 
guides  could  guess  at  the  weight  of  the  fish  by 
looking  at  them.  The  ouananiche  are  much 
longer  in  proportion  to  their  weight  than  trout, 
and  a  novice  almost  always  overestimates  them. 
But  the  guides  were  not  deceived.  "This  one 
will  weigh  four  pounds  and  three-quarters,  and 
this  one  four  pounds,  but  that  one  not  more  than 
three  pounds;  he  is  meagre,  M'sieu',  but  he  is 
meagre."  When  we  went  ashore  and  tried  the 
spring  balance  (which  every  angler  ought  to 
carry  with  him,  as  an  aid  to  his  conscience),  the 
258 


AU    LARGE 

guides  guess  usually  proved  to  be  within  an 
ounce  or  two  of  the  fact.  Any  one  of  the  senses 
can  be  educated  to  do  the  work  of  the  others. 
The  eyes  of  these  experienced  fishermen  were  as 
sensitive  to  weight  as  if  they  had  been  made  to 
use  as  scales. 

Below  the  last  fall  the  Peribonca  flows  for  a 
score  of  miles  with  an  unbroken,  ever-widening 
stream,  through  low  shores  of  forest  and  bush 
and  meadow.  Near  its  mouth  the  Little  Peri- 
bonca joins  it,  and  the  immense  flood,  nearly 
two  miles  wide,  pours  into  Lake  St.  John. 
Here  we  saw  the  first  outpost  of  civilisation — a 
huge  unpainted  storehouse,  where  supplies  are 
kept  for  the  lumbermen  and  the  new  settlers. 
Here  also  we  found  the  tiny,  lame  steam  launch 
that  was  to  carry  us  back  to  the  Hotel  Roberval. 
Our  canoes  were  stowed  upon  the  roof  of  the 
cabin,  and  we  embarked  for  the  last  stage  of 
our  long  journey. 

As  we  came  out  of  the  river-mouth,  the  oppo- 
site shore  of  the  lake  was  invisible,  and  a  stiff 
"NorVester"  was  rolling  big  waves  across  the 
£59 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

bar.  It  was  like  putting  out  into  the  open  sea. 
The  launch  laboured  and  puffed  along  for  four 
or  five  miles,  growing  more  and  more  asthmatic 
with  every  breath.  Then  there  was  an  explo- 
sion in  the  engine-room.  Some  necessary  part 
of  the  intestinal  machinery  had  blown  out. 
There  was  a  moment  of  confusion.  The  captain 
hurried  to  drop  the  anchor,  and  the  narrow  craft 
lay  rolling  in  the  billows. 

What  to  do?  The  captain  shrugged  his 
shoulders  like  a  Frenchman.  "Wait  here,  I 
suppose."  But  how  long?  "Who  knows?  Per- 
haps till  to-morrow;  perhaps  the  day  after. 
They  will  send  another  boat  to  look  for  us  in  the 
course  of  time." 

But  the  quarters  were  cramped;  the  weather 
looked  ugly;  if  the  wind  should  rise,  the  cranky 
launch  would  not  be  a  safe  cradle  for  the  night. 
Damon  and  I  preferred  the  canoes,  for  they  at 
least  would  float  if  they  were  capsized.  So  we 
stepped  into  the  frail,  buoyant  shells  of  bark  once 
more,  and  danced  over  the  big  waves  toward  the 
shore.  We  made  a  camp  on  a  wind-swept  point 
260 


AU    LARGE 

of  sand,  and  felt  like  shipwrecked  mariners. 
But  it  was  a  gilt-edged  shipwreck.  For  our 
larder  was  still  full,  and  as  if  to  provide  us  with 
the  luxuries  as  well  as  the  necessities  of  life, 
Nature  had  spread  an  inexhaustible  dessert  of 
the  largest  and  most  luscious  blueberries  around 
our  tents. 

After  supper,  strolling  along  the  beach,  we 
debated  the  best  way  of  escape;  whether  to  send 
one  of  our  canoes  around  the  eastern  shore  of 
the  lake  that  night,  to  meet  the  steamer  at  the 
Island  House  and  bring  it  to  our  rescue;  or 
to  set  out  the  next  morning,  and  paddle  both 
canoes  around  the  western  end  of  the  lake, 
thirty  miles,  to  the  Hotel  Roberval.  While 
we  were  talking,  we  came  to  a  dry  old  birch-tree, 
with  ragged,  curling  bark.  "Here  is  a  torch," 
cried  Damon,  "to  throw  light  upon  the  situ- 
ation." He  touched  a  match  to  it,  and  the 
flames  flashed  up  the  tall  trunk  until  it  was 
transformed  into  a  pillar  of  fire.  But  the  sud- 
den illumination  burned  out,  and  our  counsels 
were  wrapt  again  in  darkness  and  uncertainty, 
261 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

when  there  came  a  great  uproar  of  steam- 
whistles  from  the  lake.  They  must  be  signal- 
ling for  us.  What  could  it  mean? 

We  fired  our  guns,  leaped  into  a  canoe, 
leaving  two  of  the  guides  to  break  camp,  and 
paddled  out  swiftly  into  the  night.  It  seemed 
an  endless  distance  before  we  found  the  feeble 
light  where  the  crippled  launch  was  tossing  at 
anchor.  The  captain  shouted  something  about 
a  larger  steamboat  and  a  raft  of  logs,  out  in  the 
lake,  a  mile  or  two  beyond.  Presently  we  saw 
the  lights,  and  the  orange  glow  of  the  cabin  win- 
dows. Was  she  coming,  or  going,  or  standing 
still?  We  paddled  on  as  fast  as  we  could, 
shouting  and  firing  off  a  revolver  until  we  had 
no  more  cartridges.  We  were  resolved  not  to 
let  that  mysterious  vessel  escape  us,  and  threw 
ourselves  with  energy  into  the  novel  excitement 
of  chasing  a  steamboat  in  the  dark. 

Then  the  lights  began  to  swing  around; 
the  throbbing  of  paddle-wheels  grew  louder  and 
louder;  she  was  evidently  coming  straight  tow- 
ard us.  At  that  moment  it  flashed  upon  us 


AU    LARGE 

that,  while  she  had  plenty  of  lights,  we  had 
none!  We  were  lying,  invisible,  right  across 
her  track.  The  character  of  the  steamboat 
chase  was  reversed.  We  turned  and  fled,  as 
the  guides  say,  a  quatre  pattes,  into  illimitable 
space,  trying  to  get  out  of  the  way  of  our  too 
powerful  friend.  It  makes  considerable  differ- 
ence, in  the  voyage  of  life,  whether  you  chase 
the  steamboat,  or  the  steamboat  chases  you. 

Meantime  our  other  canoe  had  approached 
unseen.  The  steamer  passed  safely  between  the 
two  boats,  slackening  speed  as  the  pilot  caught 
our  loud  halloo!  She  loomed  up  above  us  like 
a  man-of-war,  and  as  we  climbed  the  ladder 
to  the  main-deck  we  felt  that  we  had  indeed 
gotten  out  of  the  wilderness.  My  old  friend, 
Captain  Savard,  made  us  welcome.  He  had 
been  sent  out,  much  to  his  disgust,  to  catch  a 
runaway  boom  of  logs  and  tow  it  back  to  Rober- 
val;  it  would  be  an  all  night  affair;  but  we  must 
take  possession  of  his  stateroom  and  make  our- 
selves comfortable;  he  would  certainly  bring  us 
to  the  hotel  in  time  for  breakfast.  So  he  went 
£63 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

off  on  the  upper  deck,  and  we  heard  him  stamp- 
ing about  and  yelling  to  his  crew  as  they  strug- 
gled to  get  their  unwieldy  drove  of  six  thousand 
logs  in  motion. 

All  night  long  we  assisted  at  the  lumber- 
men's difficult  enterprise.  We  heard  the  steamer 
snorting  and  straining  at  her  clumsy,  stubborn 
convoy.  The  hoarse  shouts  of  the  crew,  dis- 
guised in  a  mongrel  dialect  which  made  them 
(perhaps  fortunately)  less  intelligible  and  more 
forcible,  mingled  with  our  broken  dreams. 

But  it  was,  in  fact,  a  fitting  close  of  our  voy- 
age. For  what  were  we  doing?  It  was  the  last 
stage  of  the  woodman's  labour.  It  was  the 
gathering  of  a  wild  herd  of  the  houses  and 
churches  and  ships  and  bridges  that  grow  in  the 
forests,  and  bringing  them  into  the  fold  of  hu- 
man service.  I  wonder  how  often  the  inhabi- 
tant of  the  snug  Queen  Anne  cottage  in  the 
suburbs  remembers  the  picturesque  toil  and 
varied  hardship  that  it  has  cost  to  hew  and  drag 
his  walls  and  floors  and  pretty  peaked  roofs  out 
of  the  backwoods.  It  might  enlarge  his  home, 
264 


AU    LARGE 

and  make  his  musings  by  the  winter  fireside  less 
commonplace,  to  give  a  kindly  thought  now  and 
then  to  the  long  chain  of  human  workers  through 
whose  hands  the  timber  of  his  house  has  passed, 
since  it  first  felt  the  stroke  of  the  axe  in  the 
snow-bound  winter  woods,  and  floated,  through 
the  spring  and  summer,  on  far-off  lakes  and 
little  rivers,  au  large. 
<(&*. 


265 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN 


Those  who  wish  to  forget  pain/id  thoughts  do  well  to  absent  themselves  fot 
a  time  from  the  ties  and  objects  that  recall  them  ;  but  we  can  be  said  only 
to  fulW  our  destiny  in  the  place  that  gave  us  birth.  I  should  on  this 
account  like  weil  enough  to  spend  the  whole  of  my  life  in  travelling  abroad, 
•"/ 1  could  anywhere  borrow  another  life  to  spend  afterwards  at 
WILLIAM  HAZIJTI  :  On  Going  a  Journey. 


TROUT-FISHING  IN  THE  TRAUN 

1  HE  peculiarity  of  trout-fishing  in  the  Traun 
is  that  one  catches  principally  grayling.  But 
in  this  it  resembles  some  other  pursuits  which 
are  not  without  their  charm  for  minds  open  to 
the  pleasures  of  the  unexpected — for  example, 
reading  Goerge  Sorrow's  The  Bible  m  Spam  with 
a  view  to  theological  information,  or  going  to  the 
opening  night  at  the  Academy  of  Design  with 
the  intention  of  looking  at  pictures. 

Moreover,  there  are  really  trout  in  the  Traun, 
rari  nantes  In  gurgite;  and  in  some  places  more 
than  in  others;  and  all  of  high  spirit,  though 
few  of  great  size.  Thus  the  angler  has  his 
favourite  problem:  Given  an  unknown  stream 
and  two  kinds  of  fish,  the  one  better  than  the 
other;  to  find  the  better  kind,  and  determine 
the  hour  at  which  they  will  rise.  This  is  sport. 

As  for  the  little  river  itself,  it  has  so  many 
beauties  that  one  does  not  think  of  asking 
269 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

whether  it  has  any  faults.  Constant  fulness, 
and  crystal  clearness,  and  refreshing  coolness  of 
living  water,  pale  green  like  the  jewel  that  is 
called  aqua  marina,  flowing  over  beds  of  clean 
sand  and  bars  of  polished  gravel,  and  dropping 
in  momentary  foam  from  rocky  ledges,  between 
banks  that  are  shaded  by  groves  of  fir  and  ash 
and  poplar,  or  through  dense  thickets  of  alder 
and  willow,  or  across  meadows  of  smooth  verd- 
ure sloping  up  to  quaint  old-world  villages — • 
all  these  are  features  of  the  ideal  little  river. 

I  have  spoken  of  these  personal  qualities 
first,  because  a  truly  moral  writer  ought  to 
make  more  of  character  than  of  position.  A 
good  river  in  a  bad  country  would  be  more 
worthy  of  affection  than  a  bad  river  in  a  good 
country.  But  the  Traun  has  also  the  advan- 
tages of  an  excellent  worldly  position.  For  it 
rises  all  over  the  Salzkammergut,  the  summer 
hunting-ground  of  the  Austrian  Emperor,  and 
flows  through  that  most  picturesque  corner  of 
his  domain  from  end  to  end.  Under  the  des- 
olate cliffs  of  the  Todtengebirge  on  the  east, 
270 


TROUT-FISHING    IN    THE    TRAUN 

and  below  the  shining  ice-fields  of  the  Dachstein 
on  the  south,  and  from  the  green  alps  around 
St.  Wolfgang  on  the  west,  the  translucent  waters 
are  gathered  in  little  tarns,  and  shot  through 
roaring  brooks,  and  spread  into  lakes  of  won- 
drous beauty,  and  poured  through  growing 
streams,  until  at  last  they  are  all  united  just 
below  the  summer  villa  of  his  Kaiserly  and 
Kingly  Majesty,  Francis  Joseph,  and  flow  away 
northward,  through  the  rest  of  his  game-pre- 
serve, into  the  Traunsee.  It  is  an  imperial  play- 
ground, and  such  as  I  would  consent  to  hunt 
the  chamois  in,  if  an  inscrutable  Providence 
had  made  me  a  kingly  kaiser,  or  even  a  plain 
king  or  an  unvarnished  kaiser.  But,  failing 
this,  I  was  perfectly  content  to  spend  a  few  idle 
days  in  fishing  for  trout  and  catching  grayling, 
at  such  times  and  places  as  the  law  of  the  Aus- 
trian Empire  allowed. 

For  it  must  be  remembered  that  every  stream 
in    these    over-civilised    European    countries     be- 
longs to    somebody,  by   purchase  or   rent.   And 
all  the  fish  in  the  stream  are  supposed  to  belong 
211 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

to  the  person  who  owns  or  rents  it.  They  do 
not  know  their  master's  voice,  neither  will  they 
follow  when  he  calls.  But  they  are  theoretically 
his.  To  this  legal  fiction  the  untutored  American 
must  conform.  He  must  learn  to  clothe  his  nat- 
ural desires  in  the  raiment  of  lawful  sanction^ 
and  take  out  some  kind  of  a  license  before  he 
follows  his  impulse  to  fish. 

It  was  in  the  town  of  Aussee,  at  the  junction 
of  the  two  highest  branches  of  the  Traun,  that 
this  impulse  came  upon  me,  mildly  irresistible. 
The  full  bloom  of  mid-July  gayety  in  that 
ancient  watering-place  was  dampened,  but  not 
extinguished,  by  two  days  of  persistent  and  sur- 
prising showers.  I  had  exhausted  the  possibili- 
ties of  interest  in  the  old  Gothic  church,  and 
felt  all  that  a  man  should  feel  in  deciphering 
the  mural  tombstones  of  the  families  who  were 
exiled  for  their  faith  in  the  days  of  the  Refor- 
mation. The  throngs  of  merry  Hebrews  from 
Vienna  and  Buda-Pesth,  amazingly  arrayed  as 
mountaineers  and  milk-maids,  walking  up  and 
down  the  narrow  streets  under  umbrellas,  had 
212 


TROUT-FISHING    IN    THE    TRAUN 

Cleopatra's  charm  of  an  infinite  variety;  but 
custom  staled  it.  The  woodland  paths,  winding 
everywhere  through  the  plantations  of  fir-trees 
and  provided  with  appropriate  names  on  wooden 
labels,  and  benches  for  rest  and  conversation  at 
discreet  intervals,  were  too  moist  for  even  the 
nymphs  to  take  delight  in  them.  The  only 
creatures  that  suffered  nothing  by  the  rain  were 
the  two  swift,  limpid  Trauns,  racing  through 
the  woods,  like  eager  and  unabashed  lovers,  to 
meet  in  the  middle  of  the  village.  They  were  as 
clear,  as  joyoui,  as  musical  as  if  the  sun  were 
shining.  The  very  sight  of  their  opalescent 
rapids  and  eddying  pools  was  an  invitation  to 
that  gentle  sport  which  is  said  to  have  the  merit 
of  growing  better  as  the  weather  grows  worse. 

I  laid  this  fact  before  the  landlord  of  the 
hotel  of  the  Erzherzog  Johann,  as  poetically 
as  I  could,  but  he  assured  me  that  it  was  of 
no  consequence  without  an  invitation  from  the 
gentleman  to  whom  the  streams  belonged;  and 
he  had  gone  away  for  a  week.  The  landlord 
was  such  a  good-natured  person,  and  such  an 
273 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

excellent  sleeper,  that  it  was  impossible  to  be« 
lieve  that  he  could  have  even  the  smallest  in- 
accuracy upon  his  conscience.  So  I  bade  him 
farewell,  and  took  my  way,  four  miles  through 
the  woods,  to  the  lake  from  which  one  of  the 
streams  flowed. 

It  was  called  the  Griindlsee.  As  I  do  not 
know  the  origin  of  the  name,  I  cannot  consist- 
ently make  any  moral  or  historical  reflections 
upon  it.  But  if  it  has  never  become  famous, 
it  ought  to  be,  for  the  sake  of  a  cozy  and  busy 
little  Inn,  perched  on  a  green  hill  beside  the  lakft 
and  overlooking  the  whole  length  of  it,  from  the 
groups  of  toy  villas  at  the  foot  to  the  heaps 
of  real  mountains  at  the  head.  This  Inn  kept  a 
thin  but  happy  landlord,  who  provided  me  with 
a  blue  license  to  angle,  for  the  inconsiderable 
sum  of  fifteen  cents  a  day.  This  conferred  the 
right  of  fishing  not  only  in  the  Griindlsee,  but 
also  in  the  smaller  tarn  of  Toplitz,  a  mile  above 
it,  and  in  the  swift  stream  which  unites  them. 
It  al!  coincided  with  my  desire  as  if  by  magic, 
A  row  of  a  couple  of  miles  to  the  head  of  the 
274 


TROUT-FISHING    IN     THE    TRAUN 

lake,  and  a  walk  through  the  forest,  brought  me 
to  the  smaller  pond;  and  as  the  afternoon  sun 
was  ploughing  pale  furrows  through  the  showers, 
I  waded  out  on  a  point  of  reeds  and  cast  the 
artful  fly  in  the  shadow  of  the  great  cliffs  of  the 
Dead  Mountains. 

It  was  a  fit  scene  for  a  lone  fisherman.  But 
four  sociable  tourists  promptly  appeared  to  act 
as  spectators  and  critics.  Fly-fishing  usually 
strikes  the  German  mind  as  an  eccentricity  which 
calls  for  remonstrance.  After  one  of  the  tourists 
had  suggestively  narrated  the  tale  of  seven  trout 
which  he  had  caught  in  another  lake,  with 
worms,  on  the  previous  Sunday,  they  went  away 
for  a  row,  (with  salutations  in  which  politeness 
but  thinly  veiled  their  pity,)  and  left  me  still 
whipping  the  water  in  vain.  Nor  was  the  for- 
tune of  the  day  much  better  in  the  stream  be- 
low. It  was  a  long  and  wet  wade  for  three  fish 
too  small  to  keep.  I  came  out  on  the  shore  of 
the  lake,  where  I  had  left  the  row-boat,  with  an 
empty  bag  and  a  feeling  of  damp  discourage 
ment. 

275 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

There  was  still  an  hour  or  so  of  daylight,  and 
a  beautiful  place  to  fish  where  the  stream  poured 
swirling  out  into  the  lake.  A  rise,  and  a  large 
one,  though  rather  slow,  awakened  my  hopes. 
Another  rise,  evidently  made  by  a  heavy  fish, 
made  me  certain  that  virtue  was  about  to  be 
rewarded.  The  third  time  the  hook  went  home. 
I  felt  the  solid  weight  of  the  fish  against  the 
spring  of  the  rod,  and  that  curious  thrill  which 
runs  up  the  line  and  down  the  arm,  changing, 
somehow  or  other,  into  a  pleasurable  sensation 
of  excitement  as  it  reaches  the  brain.  But 
it  was  only  for  a  moment;  and  then  came  that 
foolish,  feeble  shaking  of  the  line  from  side  to 
side  which  tells  the  angler  that  he  has  hooked  a 
great,  big,  leather-mouthed  chub — &  fish  which 
Izaak  Walton  says  "the  French  esteem  so  mean 
as  to  call  him  Un  Vilain."  Was  it  for  this 
that  I  had  come  to  the  country  of  Francis 
Joseph? 

I  took  off  the  flies  and  put  on  one  of  those 
phantom  minnows  which  have  immortalised  the 
name  of  a  certain  Mr.  Brown.  The  minnow  swung 
276 


TROUT-FISHING    IN     THE    TRAUN 

on  a  long  line  as  the  boat  passed  back  and  forth 
across  the  current,  once,  twice,  three  times — 
and  on  the  fourth  circle  there  was  a  sharp 
strike.  The  rod  bent  almost  double,  and  the 
reel  sang  shrilly  to  the  first  rush  of  the  fish. 
He  ran;  he  doubled;  he  went  to  the  bottom  and 
sulked;  he  tried  to  go  under  the  boat;  he  did 
all  that  a  game  fish  can  do,  except  leaping. 
After  twenty  minutes  he  was  tired  enough  to 
be  lifted  gently  into  the  boat  by  a  hand  slipped 
around  his  gills,  and  there  he  was,  a  lachs- 
forette  of  three  pounds'  weight:  small  pointed 
head;  silver  sides  mottled  with  dark  spots; 
square,  powerful  tail  and  large  fins — a  fish  not 
unlike  the  land-locked  salmon  of  the  Saguenay,  but 
more  delicate. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  was  lying  on  the  grass 
in  front  of  the  Inn.  The  waiters  paused,  with 
their  hands  full  of  dishes,  to  look  at  him;  and 
the  landlord  called  his  guests,  including  my 
didactic  tourists,  to  observe  the  superiority  of 
the  trout  of  the  Griindlsee.  The  maids  also 
came  to  look;  and  the  buxom  cook,  with  her 
277 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

spotless  apron  and  bare  arms  akimbo,  was  drawn 
from  her  kitchen,  and  pledged  her  culinary 
honour  that  such  a  prackt-Jcerl  should  be  served 
up  in  her  very  best  style.  The  angler  who  is 
insensible  to  this  sort  of  indirect  flattery  through 
his  fish  does  not  exist.  Even  the  most  indiffer- 
ent of  men  thinks  more  favourably  of  people 
who  know  a  good  trout  when  they  see  it,  and 
sits  down  to  his  supper  with  kindly  feelings. 
Possibly  he  reflects,  also,  upon  the  incident  as  a 
hint  of  the  usual  size  of  the  fish  in  that  neigh- 
bourhood. He  remembers  that  he  may  have 
been  favoured  in  this  case  beyond  his  deserts  by 
good-fortune,  and  resolving  not  to  put  too  heavy 
a  strain  upon  it,  considers  the  next  place  where  it 
would  be  well  for  him  to  angle. 

Hallstatt  is  about  ten  miles  below  Aussee. 
The  Traun  here  expands  into  a  lake,  very  dark 
and  deep,  shut  in  by  steep  and  lofty  mountains. 
The  railway  runs  along  the  eastern  shore.  On 
the  other  side,  a  mile  away,  you  see  the  old 
town,  its  white  houses  clinging  to  the  cliff  like 
lichens  to  the  face  of  a  rock.  The  guide-book 
278 


TROUT-FISHING    IN     THE    TRAUN 

calls  it  "a  highly  original  situation."  But  this 
is  one  of  the  cases  where  a  little  less  originality 
and  a  little  more  reasonableness  might  be  de- 
sired, at  least  by  the  permanent  inhabitants.  A 
ledge  under  the  shadow  of  a  precipice  makes  a 
trying  winter  residence.  The  people  of  Hall- 
statt  are  not  a  blooming  race:  one  sees  many 
dwarfs  and  cripples  among  them.  But  to  the 
summer  traveller  the  place  seems  wonderfully 
picturesque.  Most  of  the  streets  are  flights  of 
steps.  The  high-road  has  barely  room  to  edge 
itself  through  among  the  old  houses,  between 
the  window-gardens  of  bright  flowers.  On  the 
hottest  July  day  the  afternoon  is  cool  and  shady. 
The  gay,  little  skiffs  and  long,  open  gondolas 
are  flitting  continually  along  the  lake,  which  is 
the  main  street  of  Hallstatt. 

The  incongruous,  but  comfortable,  modern 
hotel  has  a  huge  glass  veranda,  where  you  can 
eat  your  dinner  and  observe  human  nature '  in 
its  transparent  holiday  disguises.  I  was  much 
pleased  and  entertained  by  a  family,  or  confed- 
eracy, of  people  attired  as  peasants — th«  men 
279 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

with  feathered  hats,  green  stockings,  and  bare 
knees — the  women  with  bright  skirts,  bodices, 
and  silk  neckerchiefs — who  were  always  in 
evidence,  rowing  gondolas  with  clumsy  oars, 
meeting  the  steamboat  at  the  wharf  several 
times  a  day,  and  filling  the  miniature  garden  of 
the  hotel  with  rustic  greetings  and  early  Salz- 
kammergut  attitudes.  After  much  conjecture, 
I  learned  that  they  were  the  family  and  friends 
of  a  newspaper  editor  from  Vienna.  They  had 
the  literary  instinct  for  local  colour. 

The  fishing  at  Hallstatt  is  at  Obertraun. 
There  is  a  level  stretch  of  land  above  the  lake, 
where  the  river  flows  peaceably,  and  the  fish 
have  leisure  to  feed  and  grow.  It  is  leased  to  a 
peasant,  who  makes  a  business  of  supplying  the 
hotels  with  fish.  He  was  quite  willing  to  give 
permission  to  an  angler ;  and  I  engaged  one  of 
his  sons,  a  capital  young  fellow,  whose  natural 
capacities  for  good  fellowship  were  only  ham- 
pered by  a  most  extraordinary  German  dialect, 
to  row  me  across  the  lake,  and  carry  the  net 
and  a  small  green  barrel  full  of  water  to  keep 
280 


TROUT-FISHING    IN    THE    TRAUN 

the  fish  alive,  according  to  the  custom  of  the 
country.  The  first  day  we  had  only  four  trout 
large  enough  to  put  into  the  barrel;  the  next 
day  I  think  there  were  six;  the  third  day,  I  re- 
member very  well,  there  were  ten.  They  were 
pretty  creatures,  weighing  from  half  a  pound  to 
a  pound  each,  and  coloured  as  daintily  as  bits  of 
French  silk,  in  silver  gray  with  faint  pink  spots. 

There  was  plenty  to  do  at  Hallstatt  in  the 
mornings.  An  hour's  walk  from  the  town  there 
was  a  fine  waterfall,  three  hundred  feet  high. 
On  the  side  of  the  mountain  above  the  lake  was 
one  of  the  salt-mines  for  which  the  region  is  cel- 
ebrated. It  has  been  worked  for  ages  by  many 
successive  races,  from  the  Celt  downward.  Per- 
haps even  the  men  of  the  Stone  Age  knew  of  it, 
and  came  hither  for  seasoning  to  make  the  flesh 
of  the  cave-bear  and  the  mammoth  more  palata- 
ble. Modern  pilgrims  are  permitted  to  explore 
the  long,  wet,  glittering  galleries  with  a  guide, 
and  slide  down  the  smooth  wooden  rollers  which 
join  the  different  levels  of  the  mines.  This  pas- 
time has  the  same  fascination  as  sliding  down 
281 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  balusters;  and  it  is  said  that  even  queens 
and  princesses  have  been  delighted  with  it. 
This  is  a  touching  proof  of  the  fundamental 
simplicity  and  unity  of  our  human  nature. 

But  by  far  the  best  excursion  from  Hallstatt 
was  an  all-day  trip  to  the  Zwieselalp — a  moun- 
tain which  seems  to  have  been  especially  created 
as  a  point  of  view.  From  the  bare  summit  you 
look  right  into  the  face  of  the  huge,  snowy 
Dachstein,  with  the  wild  lake  of  Gosau  gleaming 
at  its  foot;  and  far  away  on  the  other  side  your 
vision  ranges  over  a  confusion  of  mountains, 
with  all  the  white  peaks  of  the  Tyrol  stretched 
along  the  horizon.  Such  a  wide  outlook  as  this 
helps  the  fisherman  to  enjoy  the  narrow  beauties 
of  his  little  rivers.  No  sport  is  at  its  best  with- 
out interruption  and  contrast.  To  appreciate 
wading,  one  ought  to  climb  a  little  on  odd 
days. 

Ischl  is  about  ten  or  twelve  miles  below  Hall- 
statt, in  the  valley  of  the  Traun.  It  is  the  fash- 
ionable summer-resort  of  Austria.  I  found  it 
In  the  high  tide  of  amusement.  The  shady 
Ml 


TROUT-FISHING    IN     THE     TRAUN 

esplanade  along  the  river  was  crowded  wiiJh 
brave  women  and  fair  men,  in  gorgeous  rai- 
ment; the  hotels  were  overflowing;  and  there 
were  various  kinds  of  music  and  entertainments 
at  all  hours  of  day  and  night.  But  all  this  did 
not  seem  to  affect  the  fishing. 

The  landlord  of  the  Konigin  Elizabeth,  who 
is  also  the  Burgomaster  and  a  gentleman  of 
varied  accomplishments  and  no  leisure,  kindly 
furnished  me  with  a  fishing  license  in  the  shape 
of  a  large  pink  card.  There  were  many  rules 
printed  upon  it:  "All  fishes  under  nine  inches 
must  be  gently  restored  to  the  water.  No  in- 
strument of  capture  must  be  used  except  the 
angle  in  the  hand.  The  card  of  legitimation 
must  be  produced  and  exhibited  at  the  polite 
request  of  any  of  the  keepers  of  the  river." 
Thus  duly  authorised  and  instructed,  I  sallied 
forth  to  seek  my  pastime  according  to  the  law. 

The  easiest  way,  in  theory,  was  to  take  the 
afternoon  train  up  the  river  to  one  of  the  vil- 
lages, and  fish  down  a  mile  or  two  in  the  even- 
ing, returning  by  the  eight  o'clock  train.  But 
283 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

in  practice  the  habits  of  the  fish  interfered  seri- 
ously with  the  latter  part  of  this  plan. 

On  my  first  day  I  had  spent  several  hours  in 
the  vain  effort  to  catch  something  better  than 
small  grayling.  The  best  time  for  the  trout  was 
just  approaching,  as  the  broad  light  faded  from 
the  stream;  already  they  were  beginning  to 
feed,  when  I  looked  up  from  the  edge  of  a 
pool  and  saw  the  train  rattling  down  the  valley  be- 
low me.  Under  the  circumstances  the  only  thing  to 
do  was  to  go  on  fishing.  It  was  an  even  pool 
with  steep  banks,  and  the  water  ran  through  it 
very  straight  and  swift,  some  four  feet  deep  and 
thirty  yards  across.  As  the  tail-fly  reached  the 
middle  of  the  water,  a  fine  trout  literally  turned 
a  somersault  over  it,  but  without  touching  it. 
At  the  next  cast  he  was  ready,  taking  it  with  a 
rush  that  carried  him  into  the  air  with  the  fly 
in  his  mouth.  He  weighed  three-quarters  of  a 
pound.  The  next  one  was  equally  eager  in  ris- 
ing and  sharp  in  playing,  and  the  third  might 
have  been  his  twin  sister  or  brother.  So,  after 
casting  for  hours  and  taking  nothing  in  the 


TROUT-FISHING    IN    THE    TRAUN 

most  beautiful  pools,  I  landed  three  trout  from 
one  unlikely  place  in  fifteen  minutes.  That  was 
because  the  trout's  supper-time  had  arrived.  So 
had  mine.  I  walked  over  to  the  rambling  old 
inn  at  Goisern,  sought  the  cook  in  the  kitchen, 
and  persuaded  her,  in  spite  of  the  lateness  of  the 
hour,  to  boil  the  largest  of  the  fish  for  my  sup- 
per, after  which  I  rode  peacefully  back  to  Ischl 
by  the  eleven  o'clock  train. 

For  the  future  I  resolved  to  give  up  the  illu- 
sory idea  of  coming  home  by  rail,  and  ordered 
a  little  one-horse  carriage  to  meet  me  at  some 
point  on  the  high-road  every  evening  at  nine 
o'clock.  In  this  way  I  managed  to  cover  the 
whole  stream,  taking  a  lower  part  each  day, 
from  the  lake  of  Hallstatt  down  to  Ischl. 

There  was  one  part  of  the  river,  near  Laufen, 
where  the  current  was  very  strong  and  water- 
fally,  broken  by  ledges  of  rock.  Below  these  it 
rested  in  long,  smooth  reaches,  much  beloved  by 
the  grayling.  There  was  no  difficulty  in  getting 
two  or  three  of  them  out  of  each  run. 

The  grayling  has  a  quaint  beauty.  His 
285 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

appearance  is  aesthetic,  like  a  fish  in  a  pre- 
Raphaelite  picture.  His  colour,  in  midsummer, 
\s  a  golden  gray,  darker  on  the  back,  and  with 
a  few  black  spots  just  behind  his  gills,  like 
patches  put  on  to  bring  out  the  pallor  of  his 
complexion.  He  smells  of  wild  thyme  when  he 
first  comes  out  of  the  water,  wherefore  St.  Am- 
brose of  Milan  complimented  him  in  courtly 
fashion:  "Quid  specie  tua  gratius?  Quid 
odore  fragrantius?  Quod  meUa  "fragrant,  hoc 
tuo  corpore  spiras*'  But  the  chief  glory  of 
the  grayling  is  the  large  iridescent  fin  on  his 
back.  You  see  it  cutting  the  water  as  he  swims 
near  the  surface;  and  when  you  have  him  on 
the  bank  it  arches  over  him  like  a  rainbow. 
His  mouth  is  under  his  chin,  and  he  takes  the 
fly  gently,  by  suction.  He  is,  in  fact,  and  to 
speak  plainly,  something  of  a  sucker;  but  then 
he  is  a  sucker  idealised  and  refined,  the  flower 
of  the  family.  Charles  Cotton,  the  ingenious 
young  friend  of  Walton,  was  all  wrong  in  call- 
ing the  grayling  "one  of  the  deadest-hearted 
fishes  in  the  world."  He  fights  and  leaps  and 
286 


TROUT-FISHING    IN    THE    TRAUN 

whirls,  and  brings  his  big  fin  to  bear  across  the 
force  of  the  current  with  a  variety  of  tactics 
that  would  put  his  more  aristocratic  fellow- 
citizen,  the  trout,  to  the  blush.  Twelve  of  these 
pretty  fellows,  with  a  brace  of  good  trout  for 
the  top,  filled  my  big  creel  to  the  brim.  And 
yet,  such  is  the  inborn  hypocrisy  of  the  human 
heart  that  I  always  pretended  to  myself  to  be 
disappointed  because  there  were  not  more  trout, 
and  made  light  of  the  grayling  as  a  thing  of 
naught. 

The  pink  fishing  license  did  not  seem  to  be  of 
much  use.  Its  exhibition  was  demanded  only 
twice.  Once  a  river  guardian,  who  was  walking 
down  the  stream  with  a  Belgian  Baron  and  en- 
couraging him  to  continue  fishing,  climbed  out 
to  me  on  the  end  of  a  long  embankment,  and 
with  proper  apologies  begged  to  be  favoured  with 
a  view  of  my  document.  It  turned  out  that  his 
request  was  a  favour  to  me,  for  it  discovered  the 
fact  that  I  had  left  my  fly-book,  with  the  pink 
card  in  it,  beside  an  old  mill,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
up  the  stream. 

287 


lilTTLE     RIVERS 

Another  time  I  was  sitting  beside  the  road, 
trying  to  get  out  of  a  very  long,  wet,  awkward 
pair  of  wading-stockings,  an  occupation  which 
is  unfavourable  to  tranquillity  of  mind,  when  a 
man  came  up  to  me  in  the  dusk  and  accosted 
me  with  an  absence  of  politeness  which  in  Ger- 
man amounted  to  an  insult. 

"Have  you  been  fishing?" 

"Why  do  you  want  to  know?* 

"Have  you  any  right  to  fish?** 

"What  right  have  you  to  ask?" 

"I  am  a  keeper  of  the  river.  Where  is  your 
card?" 

"It  is  in  my  pocket.  But  pardon  my  curi- 
osity, where  is  your  card?" 

This  question  appeared  to  paralyse  him.  He 
lad  probably  never  been  asked  for  his  card 
oefore.  He  went  lumbering  off  in  the  dark- 
ness, muttering  "My  card?  Unheard  of!  My 
card!" 

The  routine  of  angling  at  Ischl  was  varied 
by  an  excursion  to  the  Lake  of  St.  Wolfgang 
and  the  Schafberg,  an  isolated  mountain  on 
388 


TROUT-FISHING    IN    THE    TRAUN 

whose  rocky  horn  an  inn  has  been  built.  It 
stands  up  almost  like  a  bird-house  on  a  pole, 
and  commands  a  superb  prospect;  northward, 
across  the  rolling  plain  and  the  Bavarian  forest; 
southward,  over  a  tumultuous  land  of  peaks  and 
precipices.  There  are  many  lovely  lakes  in 
sight;  but  the  loveliest  of  all  is  that  which  takes 
its  name  from  the  old  saint  who  wandered 
hither  from  the  country  of  the  "furious 
Franks"  and  built  his  peaceful  hermitage  on 
the  Falkenstein.  What  good  taste  some  of  those 
old  saints  had ! 

There  is  a  venerable  church  in  the  village, 
with  pictures  attributed  to  Michael  Wohlgemuth, 
and  a  chapel  which  is  said  to  mark  the  spot 
where  St.  Wolfgang,  who  had  lost  his  axe  far 
up  the  mountain,  found  it.  like  Longfellow's 
arrow,  in  an  oak,  and  "still  unbroke."  The 
tree  is  gone,  so  it  was  impossible  to  verify  the 
story.  But  the  saint's  well  is  there,  in  a  pavil- 
ions with  a  bronze  image  over  it,  and  a  profitable 
inscription  to  the  effect  that  the  poorer  pil- 
grims, "who  have  come  unprovided  with  either 
289 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

money  or  wine,  should  be  jolly  well  contented 
to  find  the  water  so  fine."  There  v  also  a 
famous  echo  farther  up  the  lake,  whifch  repeats 
six  syllables  with  accuracy.  It  is  a  strange  co- 
incidence that  there  are  just  six  syllables  in  the 
name  of  "der  heilige  Wolfgang."  But  when 
you  translate  it  into  English,  the  inspiration  of 
the  echo  seems  to  be  less  exact.  The  sweetest 
thing  about  St.  Wolfgang  was  the  abundance  of 
purple  cyclamens,  clothing  the  mountain  mead- 
ows, and  filling  the  air  with  delicate  fragrance 
like  the  smell  of  lilacs  around  a  New  England 
farmhouse  in  early  June. 

There  was  still  one  stretch  of  the  river  above 
Ischl  left  for  the  last  evening's  sport  I  re- 
member it  so  well:  the  long,  deep  place  where 
the  water  ran  beside  an  embankment  of  stone, 
and  the  big  grayling  poised  on  the  edge  of  the 
shadow,  rising  and  falling  on  the  current  as  a 
kite  rises  and  falls  on  the  wind  and  balances 
back  to  the  same  position;  the  murmur  of  the 
stream  and  the  hissing  of  the  pebbles  underfoot 
fa  the  rapids  as  the  swift  water  rolled  them  over 
290 


TROUT-FISHING    IN    THE    TRAUN 

and  over;  the  odour  of  the  fir-trees,  and  the 
streaks  of  warm  air  in  quiet  places,  and  the 
faint  whiffs  of  wood-smoke  wafted  from  the 
houses,  and  the  brown  flies  dancing  heavily  up 
and  down  in  the  twilight;  the  last  good  pool, 
where  the  river  was  divided,  the  main  part  mak- 
ing a  deep,  narrow  curve  to  the  right,  and  the 
lesser  part  bubbling  into  it  over  a  bed  of  stones 
with  half-a-dozen  tiny  waterfalls,  with  a  fine 
trout  lying  at  the  foot  of  each  of  them  and  ris- 
ing merrily  as  the  white  fly  passed  over  him — 
surely  it  was  all  very  good,  and  a  memory  to  be 
grateful  for.  And  when  the  basket  was  full,  it 
was  pleasant  to  put  off  the  heavy  wading-shoes 
and  the  long  rubber-stockings,  and  ride  home* 
ward  in  an  open  carriage  through  the  fresh 
night  air.  That  is  as  near  to  sybaritic  luxury 
as  a  man  should  care  to  come. 

The  lights  in  the  cottages  are  twinkling  like 
fire-flies,  and  there  are  small  groups  of  people 
singing  and  laughing  down  the  road.  The 
honest  fisherman  reflects  that  this  world  is  only 
a  place  of  pilgrimage,  but  after  all  there  if  a 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

good  deal  of  cheer  on  the  journey,  if  it  is  made 
with  a  contented  heart.  He  wonders  who  the 
dwellers  in  the  scattered  houses  may  be,  and 
weaves  romances  out  of  the  shadows  on  the  cur- 
tained windows.  The  lamps  burning  in  the 
wayside  shrines  tell  him  stories  of  human  love 
and  patience  and  hope,  and  of  divine  forgive- 
ness. Dream-pictures  of  life  float  before  him, 
tender  and  luminous,  filled  with  a  vague,  soft 
atmosphere  in  which  the  simplest  outlines  gain 
a  strange  significance.  They  are  like  some  of 
Millet's  paintings — "The  Sower,"  or  "The 
Sheepfold," — there  is  very  little  detail  in  them; 
but  sometimes  a  little  means  so  much- 
Then  the  moon  slips  up  into  the  sky  from 
behind  the  eastern  hills,  and  the  fisherman  be- 
gins to  think  of  home,  and  of  the  foolish,  fond 
old  rhymes  about  those  whom  the  moon  sees 
far  away,  and  the  stars  that  have  the  power  to 
fulfil  wishes — as  if  the  celestial  bodies  knew 
or  cared  anything  about  our  small  nerve-thrills 
which  we  call  affection  and  desires!  But  if 
there  were  Some  One  above  the  moon  and  stars 
S92 


The  moon  slips  up  into  the  sky  from  behind  the  Eastern  kills. 


TROUT- FISHING    IN    THE    TRAUN 

who  did  know  and  care,  Some  One  who  could 
see  the  places  and  the  people  that  you  and  I 
would  give  so  much  to  see,  Some  One  who  could 
do  for  them  all  of  kindness  that  you  and  I  fain 
would  do,  Some  One  able  to  keep  our  beloved  in 
perfect  peace  and  watch  over  the  little  children 
sleeping  in  their  beds  beyond  the  sea — what 
then?  Why,  then,  in  the  evening  hour,  one 
might  have  thoughts  of  home  that  would  go 
across  the  ocean  by  way  of  heaven,  and  be  bet 
ter  than  dreams,  almost  as  good  as  prayers. 


293 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 


*  Oome  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  valleys,  groves,  or  hills,  or  field, 
Or  woods  and  steepy  mountains  yield. 

1  There  we  will  rest  our  sleepy  heads, 
And  happy  hearts,  on  balsam  bet* ; 
And  every  day  go  forth  to  fish 
In  foamy  streams  for  ouananiche." 

Old  Song  with  a  New  Endint 


AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  BALSAM  BOUGH 

IT  has  been  asserted,  on  high  philosophical 
authority,  that  woman  is  a  problem.  She  is 
more;  she  is  a  cause  of  problems  to  others.  This 
is  not  a  theoretical  statement.  It  is  a  fact  of 
experience. 

Every  year,  when  the  sun  passes  the  summer 
solstice,  the 


"Two  souls  with  but  a  single  thought 


of  whom  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  be  one,  are  sum- 
moned by  that  portion  of  our  united  mind  which 
has  at  once  the  right  of  putting  the  question  and 
of  casting  the  deciding  vote,  to  answer  this  co- 
nundrum: How  can  we  go  abroad  without  cross- 
ing the  ocean,  and  abandon  an  interesting  family 
of  children  without  getting  completely  beyond 
their  reach,  and  escape  from  the  frying-pan  of 
housekeeping  without  falling  into  the  fire  of  the 
297 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

summer  hotel?  This  apparently  insoluble  prob- 
lem we  usually  solve  by  going  to  camp  in  Canada. 

It  is  indeed  a  foreign  air  that  breathes  around 
us  as  we  make  the  harmless,  friendly  voyage 
from  Point  Levis  to  Quebec.  The  boy  on  the 
ferry-boat,  who  cajoles  us  into  buying  a  copy  of 
Le  Moniteur  containing  last  month's  news,  has 
the  address  of  a  true  though  diminutive  French- 
man. The  landlord  of  the  quiet  little  inn  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  town  welcomes  us  with  Gallic 
effusion  as  well-known  guests,  and  rubs  his 
hands  genially  before  us,  while  he  escorts  us  to 
our  apartments,  groping  secretly  in  his  memory 
to  recall  our  names.  When  we  walk  down  the 
steep,  quaint  streets  to  revel  in  the  purchase  of 
moccasins  and  water-proof  coats  and  camping 
supplies,  we  read  on  a  wall  the  familiar  but 

transformed  legend,  Uenfant  pleurs,  II  veut  son 

/ 

Camphoria,  and  remember  with  joy  that  no  in- 
fant who  weeps  in  French  can  impose  any  re- 
sponsibility upon  us  in  these  days  of  our  renewed 
honeymoon. 

But  the  true  delight  of  the  expedition  begins 
298 


SIGN   OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

when  the  tents  have  been  set  up,  in  the  forest 
back  of  Lake  St.  John,  and  the  green  branches 
have  been  broken  for  the  woodland  bed,  and  the 
fire  has  been  lit  under  the  open  sky,  and,  the 
livery  of  fashion  being  all  discarded,  I  sit  down 
at  a  log  table  to  eat  supper  with  my  lady  Grey- 
gown.  Then  life  seems  simple  and  amiable  and 
well  worth  living.  Then  the  uproar  and  con- 
fusion of  the  world  die  away  from  us,  and  we 
hear  only  the  steady  murmur  of  the  river  and 
the  low  voice  of  the  wind  in  the  tree-tops.  Then 
time  is  long,  and  the  only  art  that  is  needful  for 
its  enjoyment  is  short  and  easy.  Then  we  taste 
true  comfort,  while  we  lodge  with  Mother  Green 
at  the  Sign  of  the  Balsam  Bough. 

t 

UNDER   THE   WHITE   BIRCHES. 

Men  may  say  what  they  will  in  praise  of  their 

houses,   and   grow   eloquent  upon  the   merits   of 

various  styles  of  architecture,  but,  for  our  part, 

we  are  agreed  that  there  is  nothing  to  be  com- 

£99 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

pared  with  a  tent.  It  is  the  most  venerable  and 
aristocratic  form  of  human  habitation.  Abra- 
ham and  Sarah  lived  in  it,  and  shared  its  hospi- 
tality with  angels.  It  is  exempt  from  the  base 
tyranny  of  the  plumber,  the  paper-hanger,  and 
the  gas-man.  It  is  not  immovably  bound  to  one 
dull  spot  of  earth  by  the  chains  of  a  cellar 
and  a  system  of  water-pipes.  It  has  a  noble  free- 
dom of  locomotion.  It  follows  the  wishes  of  its 
inhabitants,  and  goes  with  them,  a  travelling 
home,  as  the  spirit  moves  them  to  explore  the 
wilderness.  At  their  pleasure,  new  beds  of  wild 
flowers  surround  it,  new  plantations  of  trees 
overshadow  it,  and  new  avenues  of  shining  water 
lead  to  its  ever-open  door.  What  the  tent  lacks 
in  luxury  it  makes  up  in  liberty:  or  rather  let 
us  say  that  liberty  itself  is  the  greatest  luxury. 

Another  thing  is  worth  remembering — a  fam- 
ily which  lives  in  a  tent  never  can  have  a  skeleton 
in  the  closet. 

But  it  must  not  be  supposed  that  every  spot 
in  the  woods  is  suitable  for  a  camp,  or  that 
a  good  tenting-ground  can  be  chosen  without 
300 


SIGN    OF    THE    BALSAM    BOUGH 

knowledge  and  forethought.  One  of  the  requi- 
sites, indeed,  is  to  be  found  everywhere  in  the 
St.  John  region;  for  all  the  lakes  and  rivers  are 
full  of  clear,  cool  water,  and  the  traveller  does 
not  need  to  search  for  a  spring.  But  it  is  always 
necessary  to  look  carefully  for  a  bit  of  smooth 
ground  on  the  shore,  far  enough  above  the  water 
to  be  dry,  and  slightly  sloping,  so  that  the  head 
of  the  bed  may  be  higher  than  the  foot.  Above 
all,  it  must  be  free  from  big  stones  and  serpen- 
tine roots  of  trees.  A  root  that  looks  no  bigger 
that  an  inch-worm  in  the  daytime  assumes  the 
proportions  of  a  boa-constrictor  at  midnight— 
when  you  find  it  under  your  hip-bone.  There 
should  also  be  plenty  of  evergreens  near  at  hand 
for  the  beds.  Spruce  will  answer  at  a  pinch;  it 
has  an  aromatic  smell;  but  it  Is  too  stiff  and 
humpy.  Hemlock  is  smoother  and  more  flex- 
ible; but  the  spring  soon  wears  out  of  it.  The 
balsam-fir,  with  its  elastic  branches  and  thick 
flat  needles,  is  the  best  of  all.  A  bed  of  these 
boughs  a  foot  deep  is  softer  than  a  mattress  and 
as  fragrant  as  a  thousand  Christmas-trees.  Two 
301 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

things  more  are  needed  for  the  ideal  camp-ground 
— an  open  situation,  where  the  breeze  will  drive 
away  the  flies  and  mosquitoes,  and  an  abundance 
of  dry  firewood  within  easy  reach.  Yes,  and  a 
third  thing  must  not  be  forgotten;  for,  says  my 
lady  Grey  gown: 

"I  should  n't  feel  at  home  in  camp  unless  I 
could  sit  in  the  door  of  the  tent  and  look  out 
across  flowing  water." 

All  these  conditions  are  met  in  our  favourite 
camping  place  below  the  first  fall  in  the  Grande 
Decharge.  A  rocky  point  juts  out  into  the  river 
and  makes  a  fine  landing  for  the  canoes.  There 
is  a  dismantled  fishing-cabin  a  few  rods  back  in 
the  woods,  from  which  we  can  borrow  boards  for 
a  table  and  chairs.  A  group  of  cedars  on  the 
lower  edge  of  the  point  opens  just  wide  enough 
to  receive  and  shelter  our  tent.  At  a  good  dis- 
tance beyond  ours,  the  guides*  tent  is  pitched; 
and  the  big  camp-fire  burns  between  the  two 
dwellings.  A  pair  of  white-birches  lift  their 
leafy  crowns  far  above  us,  and  after  them  we 
name  the  place  Le  Camp  aux  Bouleaux. 
302 


SIGN    OF    THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

"Why  not  call  trees  people? — since,  if  you 
come  to  live  among  them  year  after  year,  you 
frill  learn  to  know  many  of  them  personally,  and 
an  attachment  will  grow  up  between  you  and 
them  individually."  So  writes  that  Doctor  Am- 
abilis  of  woodcraft,  W.  C.  Prime,  in  his  book, 
Among  the  Northern  Hills,  and  straightway 
launches  forth  into  eulogy  on  the  white-birch. 
And  truly  it  is  an  admirable,  lovable,  and  com- 
fortable tree,  beautiful  to  look  upon  and  full  of 
various  uses.  Its  wood  is  strong  to  make  pad- 
dles and  axe  handles,  and  glorious  to  burn,  blaz- 
ing up  at  first  with  a  flashing  flame,  and  then 
holding  the  fire  in  its  glowing  heart  all  through 
the  night.  Its  bark  is  the  most  serviceable  of 
all  the  products  of  the  wilderness.  In  Russia, 
they  say,  it  is  used  in  tanning,  and  gives  its  sub- 
tle, sacerdotal  fragrance  to  Russia  leather.  But 
here,  in  the  woods,  it  serves  more  primitive  ends. 
It  can  be  peeled  off  in  a  huge  roll  from  some 
giant  tree  and  fashioned  into  a  swift  canoe  to 
carry  man  over  the  waters.  It  can  be  cut  into 
square  sheets  to  roof  his  shanty  in  the  forest, 
303 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

It  is  the  paper  on  which  he  writes  his  woodland 
despatches,  and  the  flexible  material  which  he 
bends  into  drinking-cups  of  silver  lined  with 
gold.  A  thin  strip  of  it  wrapped  around  the 
end  of  a  candle  and  fastened  in  a  cleft  stick 
makes  a  practicable  chandelier.  A  basket  for 
berries,  a  horn  to  call  the  lovelorn  moose  through 
the  autumnal  woods,  a  canvas  on  which  to  draw 
the  outline  of  great  and  memorable  fish — all 
these  and  many  other  indispensable  luxuries  are 
stored  up  for  the  skilful  woodsman  in  the  birch 
bark. 

Only  do  not  rob  or  mar  the  tree,  unless  you 
really  need  what  it  has  to  give  you.  Let  it 
stand  and  grow  in  virgin  majesty,  ungirdled  and 
unscarred,  while  the  trunk  becomes  a  firm  pillar 
of  the  forest  temple,  and  the  branches  spread 
abroad  a  refuge  of  bright  green  leaves  for  the 
birds  of  the  air.  Nature  never  made  a  more 
excellent  piece  of  handiwork.  "And  if,"  said 
my  lady  Grey  gown,  "I  should  ever  become  a 
dryad,  I  would  choose  to  be  transformed  into  a 
white-birch.  And  then,  when  the  days  of  my 
304 


/ 


If  I  should  ever  become  a  dryad  I  should  choose  to  be  transformed  into  5 
white  birch. 


SIGN    OF    THE    BALSAM    BOUGH 

life  were  numbered,  and  the  sap  had  ceased  to 
flow,  and  the  last  leaf  had  fallen,  and  the  dry 
bark  hung  around  me  in  ragged  curls  and 
streamers,  some  wandering  hunter  would  come 
in  the  wintry  night  and  touch  a  lighted  coal  to 
my  body,  and  my  spirit  would  flash  up  in  a  fiery 
chariot  into  the  sky." 

The  chief  occupation  of  our  idle  days  on  the 
Grande  Decharge  was  fishing.  Above  the  camp 
spread  a  noble  pool,  more  than  two  miles  in  cir- 
cumference, and  diversified  with  smooth  bays 
and  whirling  eddies,  sand  beaches  and  rocky 
islands.  The  river  poured  into  it  at  the  head, 
foaming  and  raging  down  a  long  chute,  and 
swept  out  of  it  just  in  front  of  our  camp  in  a 
merry,  musical  rapid.  It  was  full  of  fish 
of  various  kinds — long-nosed  pickerel,  wall-eyed 
pike,  and  stupid  chub.  But  the  prince  of  the 
pool  was  the  fighting  ouananiche,  the  little  sal- 
mon of  St.  John. 

Here  let  me  chant  thy  praise,  thou  noblest 
and  most  high-minded  fish,  the  cleanest  feeder, 
the  merriest  liver,  the  loftiest  leaper,  and  the 
305 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

bravest  warrior  of  all  creatures  that  swim!  Thy 
cousin,  the  trout,  in  his  purple  and  gold  with 
crimson  spots,  wears  a  more  splendid  armour 
than  thy  russet  and  silver  mottled  with  black, 
but  thine  is  the  kinglier  nature.  His  courage 
and  skill  compared  with  thine 

"Are  as  moonlight  unto  sunlight,  and  as  mater  unto 
tvine." 

The  old  salmon  of  the  sea  who  begot  thee,  long 
ago,  in  these  inland  waters,  became  a  backslider, 
descending  again  to  the  ocean,  and  grew  gross 
and  heavy  with  coarse  feeding.  But  thou,  un- 
salted  salmon  of  the  foaming  floods,  not  land- 
locked, as  men  call  thee,  but  choosing  of  thine 
own  free-will  to  dwell  on  a  loftier  level,  in  the 
pure,  swift  current  of  a  living  stream,  hast 
grown  in  grace  and  risen  to  a  higher  life.  Thou 
art  not  to  be  measured  by  quantity,  but  by 
quality,  and  thy  five  pounds  of  pure  vigour  will 
outweigh  a  score  of  pounds  of  flesh  less  vital- 
ised by  spirit.  Thou  feedest  on  the  flies  of  the 
air,  and  thy  food  is  transformed  into  an  aeriai 
306 


SIGN    OF    THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

passion  for  flight,  as  thou  springest  across  the 
pool,  vaulting  toward  the  sky.  Thine  eyes 
have  grown  large  and  keen  by  peering  through 
the  foam,  and  the  feathered  hook  that  can  de- 
ceive thee  must  be  deftly  tied  and  delicately 
cast.  Thy  tail  and  fins,  by  ceaseless  conflict 
with  the  rapids,  have  broadened  and  strength- 
ened, so  that  they  can  flash  thy  slender  body 
like  a  living  arrow  up  the  fall.  As  Lancelot 
among  the  knights,  so  art  thou  among  the  fish, 
the  plain-armoured  hero,  the  sunburnt  champion 
of  all  the  water-folk. 

Every  morning  and  evening,  Greygown  and 
I  would  go  out  for  ouananiche,  and  sometimes 
we  caught  plenty  and  sometimes  few,  but  we 
never  came  back  without  a  good  catch  of  happi- 
ness. There  were  certain  places  where  the  fish 
liked  to  stay.  For  example,  we  always  looked 
for  one  at  the  lower  corner  of  a  big  rock,  very 
close  to  it,  where  he  could  poise  himself  easily 
on  the  edge  of  the  strong  downward  stream. 
Another  likely  place  was  a  straight  run  of  wa- 
ter, swift,  but  not  too  swift,  with  a  sunken  stone 
307 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

in  the  middle.  The  ouananiche  does  not  like 
crooked,  twisting  water.  An  even  current  is  far 
more  comfortable,  for  then  he  discovers  just  how 
much  effort  is  needed  to  balance  against  it,  and 
keeps  up  the  movement  mechanically,  as  if  he 
were  half  asleep.  But  his  favourite  place  is  un- 
der one  of  the  floating  islands  of  thick  foam 
that  gather  in  the  corners  below  the  falls.  The 
matted  flakes  give  a  grateful  shelter  from  the 
sun,  I  fancy,  and  almost  all  game-fish  love  to 
lie  in  the  shade;  but  the  chief  reason  why  the 
ouananiche  haunt  the  drifting  white  mass  is  be- 
cause it  is  full  of  flies  and  gnats,  beaten  down 
by  the  spray  of  the  cataract,  and  sprinkled  all 
through  the  foam  like  plums  in  a  cake.  To  this 
natural  confection  the  little  salmon,  lurking  in 
his  corner,  plays  the  part  of  Jack  Homer  all  day 
long,  and  never  wearies. 

"See  that  belle  brou  down  below  there!"  said 
Ferdinand,  as  we  scrambled  over  the  huge  rocks 
at  the  foot  of  the  falls;  "there  ought  to  be 
salmon  there  en  masse"  Yes,  there  were  the 
sharp  noses  picking  out  the  unfortunate  insectSc, 
308 


SIGN    OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

and  the  broad  tails  waving  lazily  through  the 
foam  as  the  fish  turned  in  the  water.  At  this 
season  of  the  year,  when  summer  is  nearly  ended, 
and  every  ouananiche  in  the  Grande  Decharge 
has  tasted  feathers  and  seen  a  hook,  it  is  useless 
to  attempt  to  delude  them  with  the  large  gaudy 
flies  which  the  fishing-tackle-maker  recommends. 
There  are  only  two  successful  methods  of  angling 
now.  The  first  of  these  I  tried,  and  by  casting 
delicately  with  a  tiny  brown  trout-fly  tied  on  a 
gossamer  strand  of  gut,  captured  a  pair  of  fish 
weighing  about  three  pounds  each.  They  fought 
against  the  spring  of  the  four-ounce  rod  for 
nearly  half  an  hour  before  Ferdinand  could  slip 
the  net  around  them.  But  there  was  another 
and  a  broader  tail  still  waving  disdainfully  on 
the  outer  edge  of  the  foam.  "And  now,"  said 
the  gallant  Ferdinand,  "the  turn  is  to  madame, 
that  she  should  prove  her  fortune — attend  but 
a  moment,  madame,  while  I  seek  the  sauterelle." 

This    was    the    second    method:    the    grasshop- 
per  was   attached   to   the  hook,   and   casting  the 
line  well  out  across  the  pool,  Ferdinand  put  the 
309 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

rod  into  Greygown's  hands.  She  stood  poised 
upon  a  pinnacle  of  rock,  like  patience  on  a 
monument,  waiting  for  a  bite.  It  came.  There 
was  a  slow,  gentle  pull  at  the  line,  answered  by 
a  quick  jerk  of  the  rod,  and  a  noble  fish  flashed 
into  the  air.  Four  pounds  and  a  half  at  least! 
He  leaped  again  and  again,  shaking  the  drops 
from  his  silvery  sides.  He  rushed  up  the  rapids 
as  if  he  had  determined  to  return  to  the  lake, 
and  down  again  as  if  he  had  changed  his  plans 
and  determined  to  go  to  the  Saguenaye  He 
sulked  in  the  deep  water  and  rubbed  his  nose 
against  the  rocks.  He  did  his  best  to  treat  that 
treacherous  grasshopper  as  the  whale  served 
Jonah.  But  Greygown,  through  all  her  little 
screams  and  shouts  of  excitement,  was  steady 
and  sage.  She  never  gave  the  fish  an  inch  of 
slack  line;  and  at  last  he  lay  glittering  on 
the  rocks,  with  the  black  St.  Andrew's  crosses 
clearly  marked  on  his  plump  sides,  and  the  iri- 
descent spots  gleaming  on  his  small,  shapely 
head.  "Une  bette!"  cried  Ferdinand,  as  he 
held  up  the  fish  in  triumph,  "and  it  is  madame 
310 


SIGN    OF    THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

who  has  the  good  fortune.  She  understands 
well  to  take  the  large  fish — is  it  not?"  Grey- 
gown  stepped  demurely  down  from  her  pinnacle, 
and  as  we  drifted  down  the  pool  in  the  canoe, 
under  the  mellow  evening  sky,  her  conversation 
betrayed  not  a  trace  of  the  pride  that  a  victori- 
ous fisherman  would  have  shown.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  insisted  that  angling  was  an  affair  of 
chance — which  was  consoling,  though  I  knew  it 
was  not  altogether  true — and  that  the  smaller 
fish  were  just  as  pleasant  to  catch  and  better  to 
eat,  after  all.  For  a  generous  rival,  commend 
me  to  a  woman.  And  if  I  must  compete,  let 
it  be  with  one  who  has  the  grace  to  dissolve  the 
bitter  of  defeat  in  the  honey  of  a  mutual  self- 
congratulation. 

We  had  a  garden,  and  our  favourite  path 
through  it  was  the  portage  leading  around  the 
falls.  We  travelled  it  very  frequently,  making 
an  excuse  of  idle  errands  to  the  steamboat-land- 
ing on  the  lake,  and  sauntering  along  the  trail 
as  if  school  were  out  and  would  never  keep 
again.  It  was  the  season  of  fruits  rather  than 
311 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

of  flowers.  Nature  was  reducing  the  decora- 
tions of  her  table  to  make  room  for  the  ban- 
quet. She  offered  us  berries  instead  of  blos- 
soms. 

There  were  the  light  coral  clusters  of  the 
dwarf  cornel  set  in  whorls  of  pointed  leaves; 
and  the  deep  blue  bells  of  the  Clmtoma  bore- 
alls  (which  the  White  Mountain  people  call  the 
bear-berry,  and  I  hope  the  name  will  stick,  for 
it  smacks  of  the  woods,  and  it  is  a  shame  to 
leave  so  free  and  wild  a  plant  under  the  bur- 
den of  a  Latin  name) ;  and  the  gray,  crimson- 
veined  berries  for  which  the  Canada  Mayflower 
had  exchanged  its  feathery  white  bloom;  and 
the  ruby  drops  of  the  twisted  stalk  hanging  like 
jewels  along  its  bending  stem.  On  the  three- 
leaved  table  which  once  carried  the  gay  flower 
of  the  wake-robin,  there  was  a  scarlet  lump  like 
a  red  pepper  escaped  to  the  forest  and  run  wild. 
The  partridge-vine  was  full  of  rosy  provision  for 
the  birds.  The  dark  tiny  leaves  of  the  creeping 
snow-berry  were  all  sprinkled  over  with  delicate 
drops  of  spicy  foam.  There  were  a  few  belated 

SIS 


SIGN   OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

raspberries,  and,  if  we  chose  to  go  out  into 
the  burnt  ground,  we  could  find  blueberries  in 
plenty. 

But  there  was  still  bloom  enough  to  give  that 
festal  air  without  which  the  most  abundant  feast 
seems  coarse  and  vulgar.  The  pale  gold  of  the 
loosestrife  had  faded,  but  the  deeper  yellow  of 
the  goldenrod  had  begun  to  take  its  place.  The 
blue  banners  of  the  fleur-de-lis  had  vanished 
from  beside  the  springs,  but  the  purple  of  the 
asters  was  appearing.  Closed  gentians  kept 
their  secret  inviolate,  and  bluebells  trembled 
above  the  rocks.  The  quaint  pinkish-white 
flowers  of  the  turtle-head  showed  in  wet  places, 
and  instead  of  the  lilac  racemes  of  the  purple- 
fringed  orchis,  which  had  disappeared  with  mid- 
summer, we  found  now  the  slender  braided 
spikes  of  the  lady's-tresses,  latest  and  lowliest 

of   the   orchids,   pale   and   pure   as   nuns    of  the 
s 

forest,  and  exhaling  a  celestial  fragrance.  There 
is  a  secret  pleasure  in  finding  these  delicate 
flowers  in  the  rough  heart  of  the  wilderness. 
It  is  like  discovering  the  veins  of  poetry  in  the 
313 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

character  of  a  guide  or  a  lumberman.  And  tt* 
be  able  to  call  the  plants  by  name  makes  them 
a  hundredfold  more  sweet  and  intimate.  Nam- 
ing things  is  one  of  the  oldest  and  simplest  of 
human  pastimes.  Children  play  at  it  with  their 
dolls  and  toy  animals.  In  fact,  it  was  the  first 
game  ever  played  on  earth,  for  the  Creator  who 
planted  the  garden  eastward  in  Eden  knew  well 
what  would  please  the  childish  heart  of  man, 
when  He  brought  all  the  new-made  creatures  to 
Adam,  "to  see  what  he  would  call  them." 

Our  rustic  bouquet  graced  the  table  under 
the  white-birches,  while  we  sat  by  the  fire  and 
watched  our  four  men  at  the  work  of  the  camp 
— Joseph  and  Raoul  chopping  wood  in  the  dis- 
tance; Francois  slicing  juicy  rashers  from  the 
flitch  of  bacon;  and  Ferdinand,  the  chef,  heat- 
ing the  frying-pan  in  preparation  for  supper. 

"Have  you  ever  thought,"  said  Greygown, 
in  a  contented  tone  of  voice,  "that  this  is  the 
only  period  of  our  existence  when  we  attain  to 
the  luxury  of  a  French  cook?" 

"And  one  with  the  grand  manner,  too,w  I 
514 


SIGN    OF    THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

replied,  "for  he  never  fails  to  ask  what  it  is 
that  madame  desires  to  eat  to-day,  as  if  the  lard- 
er of  Lucullus  were  at  his  disposal,  though  he 
knows  well  enough  that  the  only  choice  lies 
between  broiled  fish  and  fried  fish,  or  bacon 
with  eggs  and  a  rice  omelet.  But  I  like  the  fic- 
tion of  a  lordly  ordering  of  the  repast.  How 
much  better  it  is  than  having  to  eat  what  is 
flung  before  you  at  a  summer  boarding-house  by 
a  scornful  waitress  I" 

"Another    thing    that    pleases    me,"    continued 
i 

my  lady,  "is  the  unbreakableness  of  the  dishes. 
There  are  no  nicks  in  the  edges  of  the  best 
plates  here;  and,  oh!  it  is  a  happy  thing  to 
have  a  home  without  bric-a-brac.  There  is  noth- 
ing here  that  needs  to  be  dusted." 

"And  no  engagements  for  to-morrow,"  I  ejac- 
ulated, "Dishes  that  can't  be  broken,  and  plans 
that  can — that's  the  ideal  of  housekeeping." 

"And  then,"  added  my  philosopher  in  skirts, 
"it  is  certainly  refreshing  to  get  away  from  all 
one's  relations  for  a  little  while." 

"But  how  do  you  make  that  out?"  I  asked, 
315 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

in  mild  surprise.  "What  are  you  going  to  do 
with  me?" 

"Oh,"  said  she,  with  a  fine  air  of  indepen- 
dence, "I  don't  count  you.  You  are  not  a  rela- 
tion, only  a  connection  by  marriage." 

"Well,  my  dear,"  I  answered,  between  the 
meditative  puffs  of  my  pipe,  "it  is  good  to  con- 
sider the  advantages  of  our  present  situation. 
We  shall  soon  come  into  the  frame  of  mind  of 
the  Sultan  of  Morocco  when  he  camped  in  the 
Vale  of  Rabat.  The  place  pleased  him  so  well 
that  he  staid  until  the  very  pegs  of  his  tent  took 
root  and  grew  up  into  a  grove  of  trees  around 
his  pavilion." 

n. 

KENOGAMI. 

The  guides  were  a  little  restless  under  the 
idle  regime  of  our  lazy  camp,  and  urged  us  to 
set  out  upon  some  adventure.  Ferdinand  was 
like  the  uncouth  swain  in  Lycidas.  Sitting 
upon  the  bundles  of  camp  equipage  on  the 
shore,  and  crying, — 

316 


SIGN   OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

"To-morrow  to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new* 

he  led  us  forth  to  seek  the  famous  fishing 
grounds  on  Lake  Kenogami. 

We  skirted  the  eastern  end  of  Lake  St.  John 
in  our  two  canoes,  and  pushed  up  La  Belle 
Riviere  to  Hebertville,  where  all  the  children 
turned  out  to  follow  our  procession  through  the 
village.  It  was  like  the  train  that  tagged  after 
the  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin.  We  embarked 
again,  surrounded  by  an  admiring  throng,  at  the 
bridge  where  the  main  street  crossed  a  little 
stream,  and  paddled  up  it,  through  a  score  of 
back  yards  and  a  stretch  of  reedy  meadows, 
where  the  wild  and  tame  ducks  fed  together, 
tempting  the  sportsman  to  sins  of  ignorance. 
We  crossed  the  placid  Lac  Vert,  and  after  a 
carry  of  a  mile  along  the  high-road  toward  Chi- 
coutimi,  turned  down  a  steep  hill  and  pitched 
our  tents  on  a  crescent  of  silver  sand,  with  the 
long,  fair  water  of  Kenogami  before  us. 

It  is  amazing  to  see  how  quickly  these  woods- 
men can  make  a  camp.  Each  one  knew  pre- 
cisely his  share  of  the  enterprise.  One  sprang 
317 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

to  chop  a  dry  spruce  log  into  fuel  for  a  quick 
fire,  and  fell  a  harder  tree  to  keep  us  warm 
through  the  night.  Another  stripped  a  pile  of 
boughs  from  a  balsam  for  the  beds.  Another 
cut  the  tent-poles  from  a  neighbouring  thicket. 
Another  unrolled  the  bundles  and  made  ready 
the  cooking  utensils.  As  if  by  magic,  the  mira- 
cle of  the  camp  was  accomplished. — 

"The  bed  was  made,  the  room  wag  fit, 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  Zft"— 

but  Greygown  always  insists  upon  completing 
that  quotation  from  Stevenson  in  her  own  voice; 
for  this  is  the  way  it  ends, — 

"When  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  I* 
At  God's  green  caravanserai.'9 

Our  permanent  camp  was  another  day's  voy- 
age down  the  lake,  on  a  beach  opposite  the 
Point  Ausable.  There  the  water  was  contracted 
to  a  narrow  strait,  and  in  the  swift  current,  close 
to  the  point,  the  great  trout  had  fixed  their 
spawning-bed  from  time  immemorial.  It  was 
318 


SIGN    OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

the  first  week  in  September,  and  the  magnates 
of  the  Jake  were  already  assembling — the  Com- 
mon Councilmen  and  the  Major  and  the  whole 
Committee  of  Seventy.  There  were  giants  in 
that  place,  rolling  lazily  about,  and  chasing 
each  other  on  the  surface  of  the  water.  "Look, 
M'sieu'!"  cried  Fra^ois,  in  excitement,  as  we 
lay  at  anchor  in  the  gray  morning  twilight; 
"one  like  a  horse  has  just  leaped  behind  us;  I 
assure  you,  big  like  a  horse !" 

But  the  fish  were  shy  and  dour.  Old  Caston- 
nier,  the  guardian  of  the  lake,  lived  in  his  hut 
on  the  shore,  and  flogged  the  water,  early  and 
late,  every  day  with  his  home-made  flies.  He 
was  anchored  in  his  dugout  close  beside  us,  and 
grinned  with  delight  as  he  saw  his  over-educated 
trout  refuse  my  best  casts.  "They  are  here, 
M'sieu',  for  you  can  see  them,"  he  said,  by  way 
of  discouragement,  "but  it  is  difficult  to  take 
them.  Do  you  not  find  it  so  ?" 

In  the  back  of  my  fly-book  I  discovered  a 
tiny  phantom  minnow — a  dainty  affair  of  var- 
nished silk,  as  light  as  a  feather — and  quietly 
319 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

attached  it  to  the  leader  in  place  of  the  tail-fly. 
Then  the  fun  began. 

One  after  another  the  big  fish  dashed  at  that 
deception,  and  we  played  and  netted  them, 
until  our  score  was  thirteen,  weighing  alto- 
gether thirty-five  pounds,  and  the  largest  five  , 
pounds  and  a  half.  The  guardian  was  mystified 
and  disgusted.  He  looked  on  for  a  while  in 
silence,  and  then  pulled  up  anchor  and  clattered 
ashore.  He  must  have  made  some  inquiries 
and  reflections  during  the  day,  for  that  night 
he  paid  a  visit  to  our  camp.  After  telling  bear 
stories  and  fish  stories  for  an  hour  or  two  by 
the  fire,  he  rose  to  depart,  and  tapping  his  fore- 
finger solemnly  upon  my  shoulder,  delivered 
himself  as  follows: — 

"You  can  say  a  proud  thing  when  you  go 
home,  M'sieu' — that  you  have  beaten  the  old 
Castonnier.  There  are  not  many  fishermen  who 
can  say  that.  "But,"  he  added,  with  confidential 
emphasis,  "c'etait  votre  sacre  p'tit  poisson  qui  a 
fait  cela." 

That  was  a  touch  of  human  nature,  my  rustj[ 


SIGN   OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

old  guardian,  more  welcome  to  me  than  all  the 
morning's  catch.  Is  there  not  always  a  "con- 
founded little  minnow"  responsible  for  our  fail- 
ures? Did  you  ever  see  a  school-boy  tumble 
on  the  ice  without  stooping  immediately  to  re- 
buckle  the  strap  of  his  skates?  And  would  not 
Ignotus  have  painted  a  masterpiece  if  he  could 
have  found  good  brushes  and  a  proper  canvas? 
Life's  shortcomings  would  be  bitter  indeed  if  we 
could  not  find  excuses  for  them  outside  of  our- 
selves. And  as  for  life's  successes — well,  it  is 
certainly  wholesome  to  remember  how  many  of 
them  are  due  to  a  fortunate  position  and  the 
proper  tools. 

Our  tent  was  on  the  border  of  a  coppice  of 
young  trees.  It  was  pleasant  to  be  awakened 
by  a  convocation  of  birds  at  sunrise,  and  to 
watch  the  shadows  of  the  leaves  dance  out  upon 
our  translucent  roof  of  canvas. 

All  the  birds  in  the  bush  are  early,  but  there 
are  so  many  of  them  that  if  is  difficult  to  be- 
lieve that  every  one  can  be  rewarded  with  a 
worm.  Here  in  Canada  those  little  people  of 
Ml 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  air  who  appear  as  transient  guests  of  spring 
and  autumn  in  the  Middle  States,  are  in  their 
summer  home  and  breeding-place.  Warblers, 
named  for  the  magnolia  and  the  myrtle,  chest- 
nut-sided, bay-breasted,  blue-backed,  and  black- 
throated,  flutter  and  creep  along  the  branches 
with  simple  lisping  music.  Kinglets,  ruby- 
crowned  and  golden-crowned,  tiny,  brilliant 
sparks  of  life,  twitter  among  the  trees,  breaking 
occasionally  into  clearer,  sweeter  songs.  Com- 
panies of  redpolls  and  crossbills  pass  chirp- 
ing through  the  thickets,  busily  seeking  their 
food.  The  fearless,  familiar  chickadee  repeats 
his  name  merrily,  while  he  leads  his  family  to 
explore  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  wood. 
Cedar  wax-wings,  sociable  wanderers,  arrive  in 
numerous  flocks.  The  Canadians  call  them  "re- 
collets"  because  they  wear  a  brown  crest  of  the 
same  colour  as  the  hoods  of  the  monks  who  came 
with  the  first  settlers  to  New  France.  They  are 
a  songless  tribe,  although  their  quick,  reiterated 
call  as  they  take  to  flight  has  given  them  the 
name  of  chatterers.  The  beautiful  tree-sparrows 
Ml 


SIGN   OF    THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

and  the  pine-siskins  are  more  melodious,  and 
the  slate-coloured  j  uncos,  flitting  about  the  camp, 
are  as  garrulous  as  chippy-birds.  All  these  va- 
ried notes  come  and  go  through  the  tangle  of 
morning  dreams.  And  now  the  noisy  blue- jay  is 
calling  "Thief — thief — thief!"  in  the  distance, 
and  a  pair  of  great  pileated  woodpeckers  with 
crimson  crests  are  laughing  loudly  in  the  swamp 
over  some  family  joke.  But  listen!  what  is 
that  harsh  creaking  note?  It  is  the  cry  of  the 
Northern  shrike,  of  whom  tradition  says  that 
he  catches  little  birds  and  impales  them  on 
sharp  thorns.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the 
concert  closes  suddenly  and  the  singers  vanish 
into  thin  air.  The  hour  of  music  is  over;  the 
commonplace  of  day  has  begun.  And  there  is 
my  lady  Greygown,  already  up  and  dressed, 
standing  by  the  breakfast-table  and  laughing  at 
my  belated  appearance. 

But  the  birds  were  not  our  only  musicians  at 
Kenogami.  French  Canada  is  one  of  the  an- 
cestral homes  of  song.  Here  you  can  still  listen 
to  those  quaint  ballads  which  were  sung  cen- 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

turies  ago  in  Normandie  and  Provence.  "A 
la  Claire  Fontaine,"  "Dans  Paris  y  a-t-une 
Brune  plus  Belle  que  le  Jour"  "Sur  le  Pont 
d'Avignon,"  "En  Roulant  ma  Boule,"  "La 
Poulette  Grise,"  and  a  hundred  other  folk-songs 
linger  among  the  peasants  and  voyageurs  of  these 
northern  woods.  You  may  hear 

"Malbrouck  s'en  va-t-cn  guerre— 
Mironton,  vnironton,  mirontaine" 

and 

"Isabeau  s'y  promene 
Le  long  de  son  jardm" 

chanted  in  the  farmhouse  or  the  lumber  shanty, 
to  the  tunes  which  have  come  down  from  an  un- 
known source,  and  never  lost  their  echo  in  the 
hearts  of  the  people. 

Our  Ferdinand  was  a  perfect  fountain  of 
music.  He  had  a  clear  tenor  voice,  and  sol- 
aced every  task  and  shortened  every  voyage 
with  melody.  "A  song,  Ferdinand,  a  jolly  song," 
the  other  men  would  say,  as  the  canoes  went 
•weeping  down  the  quiet  lake.  And  then  the 
324 


SIGN   OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

leader  would  strike  up  a  well-known  air,  and 
his  companions  would  come  in  on  the  refrain, 
keeping  time  with  the  stroke  of  their  paddles. 
Sometimes  it  would  be  a  merry  ditty : 

"My  father  had  no  girl  but  me, 
And  yet  he  sent  me  off  to  sea; 
Leap,  my  little  Cecilia.9* 

Or  perhaps  it  was : 

"/  've  danced  so  much  the  livelong  day,— 
Dance,  my  sweetheart,  let  9s  be  gay,— 
I  've  fairly  danced  my  shoes  away, — 

Till  evening. 

Dance,  my  pretty,  dance  once  more; 
Dance,  until  we  break  the  floor.9* 

But  more  frequently  the  song  was  touched  with 
a  plaintive  pleasant  melancholy.  The  min- 
strel told  how  he  had  gone  into  the  woods  and 
heard  the  nightingale,  and  she  had  confided  to 
him  that  lovers  are  often  unhappy.  The  story 
of  La  Belle  Franfoise  was  repeated  in  minor 
cadences — how  her  sweetheart  sailed  away  to 
825 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

the  wars,  and  when  he  came  back  the  village 
church  bells  were  ringing,  and  he  said  to  him- 
self that  Fran9oise  had  been  faithless,  and  the 
chimes'  were  for  her  marriage;  but  when  he 
entered  the  ^church  it  was  her  funeral  that  he 
saw,  for  she  had  died  of  love.  It  is  strange 
how  sorrow  charms  us  when  it  is  distant  and 
visionary.  Even  when  we  are  happiest  we  en- 
joy making  music 

"Of  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things.91 

"What  is  that  song  which  you  are  singing, 
Ferdinand?"  asks  the  lady,  as  she  hears  him 
humming  behind  her  in  the  canoe. 

"Ah,  madame,  it  is  the  chanson  of  a  young 
man  who  demands  of  his  blonde  why  she  will 
not  marry  him.  He  says  that  he  has  waited 
long  time,  and  the  flowers  are  falling  from  the 
rose-tree,  and  he  is  very  sad." 

"And  does  she  give  a  reason?" 

"Yes,  madame — that  is  to  say,  a  reason  of 
a  certain  sort;  she  declares  that  she  is  not  quite 
ready;  he  must  wait  until  the  rose-tree  adorns 

itself  again." 

326 


SIGN    OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

"And  what  is  the  end — do  they  get  married 
at  last?" 

"But  I  do  not  know,  madame.  The  chan- 
son does  not  go  so  far.  It  ceases  with  the  com- 
plaint of  the  young  man.  And  it  is  a  very 
uncertain  affair — this  affair  of  the  heart — is 
it  not?" 

Then,  as  if  he  turned  from  such  perplexing 
mysteries  to  something  plain  and  sure  and  easy 
to  understand,  he  breaks  out  into  the  j  oiliest  of 
all  Canadian  songs: 

"My  bark  canoe  that  flies,  that  flies, 
Hola!  my  bark  canoe!" 

m. 

THE  ISLAND  POOL. 

!Among  the  mountains  there  is  a  gorge.  And 
in  the  gorge  there  is  a  xiver.  And  in  the  river 
there  is  a  pool.  And  in  the  pool  there  is  an 
island.  And  on  the  island,  for  four  happy  days, 
there  was  a  camp. 

It  was  by  no  means  an  easy  matter  to  estab- 
327 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

lish  ourselves  in  that  lonely  place.  The  river, 
though  not  remote  from  civilisation,  is  practi- 
cally inaccessible  for  nine  miles  of  its  course 
by  reason  of  the  steepness  of  its  banks,  which 
are  long,  shaggy  precipices,  and  the  fury  of 
its  current,  in  which  no  boat  can  live.  We 
heard  its  voice  as  we  approached  through 
the  forest,  and  could  hardly  tell  whether  it  was 
far  away  or  near. 

There  is  a  perspective  of  sound  as  well  as 
of  sight,  and  one  must  have  some  idea  of  the 
size  of  a  noise  before  one  can  judge  of  its 
distance.  A  mosquito's  horn  in  a  dark  room 
may  seern  like  a  trumpet  on  the  battlements; 
and  the  tumult  of  a  mighty  stream  heard 
through  an  unknown  stretch  of  woods  may  ap- 
pear like  the  babble  of  a  mountain  brook  close 
at  hand. 

But  when  we  came  out  upon  the  bald  fore- 
head of  a  burnt  cliff  and  looked  down,  we  real- 
ised the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the  unseen 
voice  that  we  had  been  following.  A  river  of 
splendid  strength  went  leaping  through  the 
328 


SIGN    OF    THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

chasm  five  hundred  feet  below  us,  and  at  the 
foot  of  two  snow-white  falls,  in  an  oval  of  dark 
topaz  water,  traced  with  curves  of  floating  foam, 
lay  the  solitary  island. 

The  broken  path  was  like  a  ladder.  "How 
shall  we  ever  get  down?"  sighed  Grey  gown,  as 
we  dropped  from  rock  to  rock;  and  at  the  bot- 
tom she  looked  up  sighing,  "I  know  we  never 
can  get  back  again."  There  was  not  a  foot  of 
ground  on  the  shores  level  enough'  for  a  tent. 
Our  canoe  ferried  us  over,  two  at  a  time,  to  the 
island.  It  was  about  a  hundred  paces  long, 
composed  of  round,  coggly  stones,  with  just  one 
patch  of  smooth  sand  at  the  lower  end.  There 
was  not  a  tree  left  upon  it  larger  than  an  alder- 
bush.  The  tent-poles  must  be  cut  far  up  on  the 
mountain-sides,  and  every  bough  for  our  beds 
must  be  carried  down  the  ladder  of  rocks.  But 
the  men  were  gay  at  their  work,  singing  like 
mocking-birds.  After  all,  the  glow  of  life  comes 
from  friction  with  its  difficulties.  If,  we  cannot 
find  them  at  home,  we  sally  abroad  and  create 
them,  just  to  warm  up  our  mettle. 
329 


LITTLE    RIVERS 

The  ouananiche  in  the  island  pool  were  su- 
perb, astonishing,  incredible.  We  stood  on  the 
cobble-stones  at  the  upper  end,  and  cast  our 
little  flies  across  the  sweeping  stream,  and  for 
three  days  the  fish  came  crowding  in  to  fill  the 
barrel  of  pickled  salmon  for  our  guides'  winter 
use;  and  the  score  rose, — twelve,  twenty-one, 
thirty-two;  and  the  size  of  the  "biggest  fish" 
steadily  mounted — four  pounds,  four  and  a 
half,  five,  five  and  three-quarters.  "Precisely 
almost  six  pounds,"  said  Ferdinand,  holding  the 
scales;  "but  we  may  call  him  six,  M'sieu',  for  if 
it  had  been  to-morrow  that  we  had  caught  him, 
he  would  certainly  have  gained  the  other  ounce." 
And  yet,  why  should  I  repeat  the  fisherman's 
folly  of  writing  down  the  record  of  that  marvel- 
lous catch?  We  always  do  it,  but  we  know  that 
it  is  a  vain  thing.  Few  listen  to  the  tale,  and 
none  accept  it.  Does  not  Christopher  North, 
reviewing  the  Salmoma  of  Sir  Humphry  Davy, 
mock  and  jeer  unfeignedly  at  the  fish  stories  of 
that  most  reputable  writer?  But,  on  the  very 
next  page,  old  Christopher  himself  meanders 
330 


SIGN    OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

on  into  a  perilous  narrative  of  the  day  when  he 
caught  a  whole  cart-load  of  trout  in  a  Highland 
loch.  Incorrigible,  happy  inconsistency!  Slow 
to  believe  others,  and  full  of  sceptical  inquiry, 
fond  man  never  doubts  one  thing — that  some- 
where in  the  world  a  tribe  of  gentle  readers  will 
be  discovered  to  whom  his  fish  stories  will  ap- 
pear credible. 

One  of  our  days  on  the  island  was  Sunday — 
a  day  of  rest  in  a  week  of  idleness.  We  had  a 
few  books;  for  there  are  some  in  existence 
which  will  stand  the  test  of  being  brought  into 
close  contact  with  nature.  Are  not  John  Bur- 
roughs' cheerful,  kindly  essays  full  of  wood- 
land truth  and  companionship?  Can  you  not 
carry  a  whole  library  of  musical  philosophy  in 
your  pocket  in  Matthew  Arnold's  volume  of 
selections  from  Wordsworth?  And  could  there 
be  a  better  sermon  for  a  Sabbath  in  the  wil- 
derness than  Mrs.  Slosson's  immortal  story  of 
Fishm'  Jimmy? 

But  to  be  very  frank  about  the  matter,  the 
camp  is  not  stimulating  to  the  studious  side  of 
331 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

my  mind.  Charles  Lamb,  as  usual,  has  said 
what  I  feel:  "I  am  not  much  a  friend  to  out- 
of-doors  reading.  I  cannot  settle  my  spirits 
to  it." 

There  are  blueberries  growing  abundantly 
among  the  rocks — huge  clusters  of  them, 
bloomy  and  luscious  as  the  grapes  of  Eshcol. 
The  blueberry  is  nature's  compensation  for  the 
ruin  of  forest  fires.  It  grows  best  where  the 
woods  have  been  burned  away  and  the  soil  is 
too  poor  to  raise  another  crop  of  trees.  Surely 
it  is  an  innocent  and  harmless  pleasure  to  wan- 
der along  the  hillsides  gathering  these  wild 
fruits,  as  the  Master  and  His  disciples  once 
walked  through  the  fields  and  plucked  the  ears 
of  corn,  never  caring  what  the  Pharisees  thought 
of  that  new  way  of  keeping  the  Sabbath. 

And  here  is  a  bed  of  moss  beside  a  dashing 
rivulet,  inviting  us  to  rest  and  be  thankful. 
Hark!  There  is  a  white-throated  sparrow,  on  a 
little  tree  across  the  river,  whistling  his  after- 
noon song 

"In  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out." 
332 


SIGN    OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

Dow  i  in  Maine  they  call  him  the  Peabody-bird, 
because  his  notes  sound  to  them  like  Old  man 
— Peabody,  peabody,  peabody.  In  New  Bruns- 
wick the  Scotch  settlers  say  that  he  sings  Lost 
^-lost — Kennedy,  Tcennedy,  Kennedy.  But  here 
in  his  northern  home  I  think  we  can  under- 
stand him  better.  He  is  singing  again  and 
£gain,  with  a  cadence  that  never  wearies,  "Sweet — 
sweet  —  Canada,  Canada,  Canada  F  The  Cana- 
dians, when  they  came  across  the  sea,  remem- 
bering the  nightingale  of  southern  France,  bap- 
tised this  little  gray  minstrel  their  rossignol, 
and  the  country  ballads  are  full  of  his  praise. 
Every  land  has  its  nightingale,  if  we  only  have 
the  heart  to  hear  him.  How  distinct  his  voice 
is — how  personal,  how  confidential,  as  if  he  had 
a  message  for  us ! 

There  is  a  breath  of  fragrance  on  the  cool 
shady  air  beside  our  little  stream,  that  seems  fa- 
miliar. It  is  the  first  week  of  September.  Can 
it  be  that  the  twin-flower  of  June,  the  delicate 
Lmnosa  borealis,  is  blooming  again?  Yes,  here 
is  the  threadlike  stem  lifting  its  two  frail  pink 
338 


LTlTTLE     RIVERS 

bells  above  the  bed  of  shining  leaves.  How 
dear  an  early  flower  seems  when  it  comes  back 
again  and  unfolds  its  beauty  in  a  St.  Martin's 
summer!  How  delicate  and  suggestive  is  the 
faint,  magical  odour!  It  is  like  a  renewal  of  the 
dreams  of  youth. 

"And  need  we  ever  grow  old?"  asked  my 
lady  Greygown,  as  she  sat  that  evening  with  the 
twin-flower  on  her  breast,  watching  the  stars 
come  out  along  the  edge  of  the  cliffs,  and  tremble 
on  the  hurrying  tide  of  the  river.  "Must  we 
grow  old  as  well  as  gray?  Is  the  time  coming 
when  all  life  will  be  commonplace  and  practical, 
and  governed  by  a  dull  'of  course'?  Shall  we 
not  always  find  adventures  and  romances,  and  a 
few  blossoms  returning,  even  when  the  season 
grows  late  ?" 

"At  least,"  I  answered,  "let  us  believe  in  the 
possibility,  for  to  doubt  it  is  to  destroy  it.  If 
we  can  only  come  back  to  nature  together  every 
year,  and  consider  the  flowers  and  the  birds, 
and  confess  our  faults  and  mistakes  and  our  un- 
belief under  these  silent  stars,  and  hear  the  river 
834 


SIGN   OF   THE   BALSAM    BOUGH 

murmuring  our  absolution,  we  shall  die  young, 
even  though  we  live  long:  we  shall  have  a  treas- 
ure of  memories  which  will  be  like  the  twin- 
flower,  always  a  double  blossom  on  a  single  stem, 
and  carry  with  us  into  the  unseen  world  some- 
thing which  will  make  it  worth  while  to  be  im- 
mortal." 

m*. 


985 


A    SONG    AFTER    SUNDOWN 


THE  WOOD-NOTES  OF  THE   VEERY 

The  moonbeams  over  Arno's  vale  in  silver  flood  were 

pouring, 
When  first  I  heard  the  nightingale  a  long-lost  love 

deploring: 
So  passionate,  so  full  of  pain,  it  sounded  strange  and 

eerie, 
I  longed  to  hear  a  simpler  strain,  the  wood-notes  of 

the  veery. 

The  laverock  sings  a  bonny  lay,  above  the  Scottish 

heather, 
It  sprinkles  from  the  dome  of  day  like  light  and  love 

together; 
He  drops  the  golden  notes  to  greet  his  brooding  mate, 

his  dearie; 
I  only  know  one  song  more  sweet,  the  vespers  of  the 

veery. 

In  English  gardens  green  and   bright,  and  rich  in 

fruity  treasure, 
I  've  heard  the  blackbird  with  delight  repeat  his  merry 

measure; 


LITTLE     RIVERS 

The  ballad  was  a  lively  one,  the  tune  was  loud  and 

cheery, 
And  yet   with  every  setting  sun  I  listened  for  the 

veery. 

0  far  awayf  and  far  awayt  the  tawny  thrush  is  sing- 

ing, 
New  England  woods  at  close  of  day  with  that  clear 

chant  are  ringing; 
And  when  my  light  of  life  is  low,  and  heart  and  flesh 

are  weary, 

1  fain  would  hear,  before  I  go,  the  wood-notes  of  the 

veery. 
1895. 


340 


INDEX 


Affection,  misplaced:  an  in- 
stance of,  157,  158. 

Altnaharra:  111. 

Alt-Prags,  the  Baths  of:  their 
venerable  appearance,  202. 

Ambrose,  of  Milan:  his  compli- 
ment to  the  Grayling,  286. 

Ampersand:  derivation  of  the 
name,  70;  the  mountain,  71; 
the  lake,  89;  the  river,  71. 

Ananias:  a  point  named  after 
him,  254. 

Anglers:  the  pretensions  of  rus- 
tic, exposed,  30;  a  group  of, 
67,  58;  a  friendly  folk,  145, 
146. 

Angling:  its  attractions,  3-5;  an 
education  in,  42  ff. ;  Dr.  Pa- 
ley's  attachment  to,  136;  a 
benefaction  to  fish,  159. 

Antinotts:  the  cause  of  his 
death,  17. 

Architecture:  prevailing  style 
on  the  Ristigouche,  144;  the 
superiority  of  a  tent  to  other 
forms  of,  300;  domestic  types 
in  Canada,  238,  239. 

Arnold,  Matthew:  quoted.  140. 

Aussee:  272. 

Baldness:    in    mountain!    and 

men,  85. 

Barrie,  J.  M.t  97. 
Bartlett,  Virgil:  a  tribute  to  his 

memory,  72,  73. 

Bear-stories:  their  ubiquity,  62. 
Bellinghausen,      von      Miinch: 

quoted,  297. 
Birds:    a    good    way    to   make 

their  acquaintance,  24;  differ- 

841 


ences   in  character,   26-27;   A 
convocation  of,  321. 
Birds  named: 

Blackbird,  339. 

Bluebird,  4,  26. 

Cat-bird,  24. 

Cedar-bird,  322,  323, 

Chewink,  4,  26. 

Chickadee,  322. 

Crossbill,   322. 

Crow,  Hoodie,  115. 

Cuckoo,   190. 

Ducks,  "Betseys,"  229. 

Eagle,  112. 

Grouse,  Ruffed,  81. 

Gull,  229. 

Jay,  Blue,  26,  322. 

Kingfisher,  27,  162,  229. 

Kinglet,   ruby,  and  golde»- 
crowned,  321,   322. 

Laverock,  339. 

Meadow-lark,  4. 

Nightingale,  333,  339. 

Oriole,  25. 

Owl,  Great  Horned,  62. 

Pewee,  Wood,  25. 

Pine-Siskin,   323. 

Redpoll,   322. 

Robin,  3,   25. 

Sand-piper,  Spotted,  24. 

Sheldrake,  77. 

Shrike,  323. 

Sky-lark,  188,  339. 

Sparrow,  Song,  4,  26. 

Sparrow,  Tree,  323. 

Sparrow,       White-throated, 
162,  333. 

Thistle-bird,  4. 

Thrush,  Hermit,  4,  28. 

Thrush,  Wood,  28. 


INDEX 


Birds  named: 

Thrush,    Wilson's,    28,    339, 

340. 

Veery,  28,  339,  340. 
Warbler,     black  •  throated 

green,  82. 
Warbler,   various   kinds   of 

Canada,  321. 
Woodpecker,  31,  32. 
Woodpecker,  Great-plicated, 

322. 
Woodpecker,  Red  -  headed, 

81. 
Yellow  •  throat,    Maryland, 

24. 

Bishops:    the    proper    costume 
for,  30;  a  place  frequented  by, 
177. 
Black,   William:  his  "Princess 

of  Thule,"  97  ff. 
Black-fly:  his  diabolical  nature, 

246. 

Blackmore,  R.  D.:  quoted,  37. 
Blunderhead:    a   winged   idiot, 

245. 

Boats:  Adirondack,  76. 
Bonaparte,  Napoleon:  as  a  com- 
rade on  foot,  17. 
Bridges,  Robert:  quoted,  93. 
Burroughs,  John:  his  views  on 

walking,  67;  his  essays,  331. 
Byron,     George,     Lord:     mis- 
quoted, 282,   283. 

Cambridge:  looks  best  from  the 
rear,  21. 

Camping-out:  a  first  experi- 
ence, 60-64;  lessons  to  be 
learned  from  it,  65;  discre- 
tion needed  in,  301;  skill  of 
guides  in  preparation  for, 
317. 

Character:  expressed  in  looks, 
14. 

Chub:  a  mean  fish,  276-277. 

CUUi»:  enlivened  by  rivers,  21. 


Conservatism:  Scotch  style  of, 
108. 

Contentment:  an  example  of, 
316. 

Conversation:  best  between 
two,  125;  the  most  valuably 
kind,  128;  egoism  the  salt  of, 
156;  the  fine  art  of,  163,  164; 
current  coin  in,  247. 

Cook:  the  blessing  of  having 
a  good-humoured,  229,  230. 

Cortina:  178-194. 

Cotton,  Charles:  quoted,  286. 

Courtesy:  in  a  custom-house 
officer,  174;  among  the  Tyro- 
lese  peasants,  209;  of  a  French 
Canadian,  231. 

Cow-boy:  pious  remark  of  a, 
34. 

Cowley,  Abraham:  on  littleness, 
17,  18. 

Credulity:  of  anglers  in  re- 
gard to  their  own  fish-sto- 
ries, 330. 

Crockett,  S.  R.:  quoted,  29,  98. 

Darwin,  Charles:  quoted,  31,  32. 
Davy,    Sir    Humphry:    quoted, 

136. 
Deer-hunting:   in   the   Adiron- 

dacks,  78. 

Depravity,  total:  in  trout,  118. 
Diogenes:  as  a  bedfellow,  17. 
Dolomites:  described,  169-171  If. 
Driving:      four-in-hand,      172; 

after  dinner,  174;  the  French 

Canadian  idea  of,  237. 

Economy:  an  instance  of,  241. 
Education:  a  wise  method  of, 

42,  43. 

Education:  in  a  canoe,  232. 
Edwards,  Jonathan:  his  love  of 

nature,  31,  32. 
Egoism,    modest:    the   salt   of 

conversation,  156, 


INDEX 


Epics:  not  to  be  taken  as  dis- 
couragement to  lyrics,  34. 

Epigrams:  of  small  practical 
value,  127,  128. 


Failures:  the  philosophic  way 

of  accounting  for,  321. 
Fame:  the  best  kind  of,  182. 
Farming:    demoralised   on   the 

Ristigouche,  142,  143. 
Fashion:     unnecessary    for    a 
well-dressed  woman  to  follow, 
186. 
Fatherhood:  the  best  type  of, 

42,  43;  Its  significance,  232. 
Fiction:    Its  uses,  96-98,  102. 
Fish:  fact  that  the  largest  al- 
ways escape,  150. 
Flowers  named: 

Alpenrosen,  168,  189,  210. 

Anemone,  4. 

Arrow-head,   13. 

Asters,  24,  313. 

Bear-berry   (Cllntonla  bore- 
alls),  312. 

Bee-balm,  23. 

Blue-bells,  313,  314. 

Canada  May-flower,  312. 

Cardinal  flower,  24. 

Cinquefoil,  23. 

Clover,   188. 

Crowfoot,  23. 

Cyclamen,  227,  297. 

Dahlia,  238. 

Daisy,  ox-eye,   14. 

Dandelion,  4. 

Dwarf  cornel,  812. 

Fireweed,  241. 

Fleur-de-lis,   227,   SIS. 

Forget-me-not,   188. 

Fuchsia,  115. 

Gentian,  Alpine,  188. 

Oentian,  closed,  24,  267,  313. 

Golden-rod,  24,  312. 

Hare-bell,  23, 


Flowers  named: 

Heather,  18,  96  tt. 

Hepatica,  23. 

Hollyhock,  238. 

Honey-suckle,  110,  111. 

Jewel-weed,  23,  257. 

Joe-Pye  weed,   257. 

Knot-weed,    13. 

Ladies'-tresses,   313. 

Lilac,    39,    290. 

Loose-Strife,  yellow,  23,  312, 

Marigold.  138,  139. 

Meadow-rue,  227. 

Orchis,    purple-fringed,    28, 
227,    313,   314. 

Pansy,  209. 

Partridge-berry,   812. 

Polygala,   fringed,  100. 

Pyrola,    227. 

Rose,  39,  115,  125. 

Santa  Lucia,   188. 

Self-heal,  24. 

Snow-berry,  312. 

Spring-beauty,  23. 

St.  John's-wort,  24. 

Star-grass,  24. 

Tansy,  39. 

Trillium,   painted,  28. 

Tulips,  3. 

Turtle-head,  313,  314. 

Twinflower,  16,  233. 

Twisted-stalk,  312. 

Violet,  23. 

Wake-Robin,  312. 
Flowers:  Nature's  embroidery, 
23,  24,  187,  227,  312;  the  pleas- 
ure of  knowing  by  name,  313, 
814;  second  bloom  of,  333, 
334. 

Forests:  the  mid-day  silence  of, 
81;  flowers  In,  188,  189,  227, 
311-314. 

Friendship:  the  great  not  al- 
ways adapted  for  It,  17; 
pleasure  in  proximity,  13;  a 
celestial  gift,  124. 


343 


INDEX 


Gay,  John:  quoted,  9. 

Germans:  their  sentiment,  193, 
194;  their  genius  for  thor- 
oughness, 197;  their  polite- 
ness, 288. 

Gilbert,  W.  S.:  quoted,  42. 

Goafs-milk:  the  proper  way  to 
drink  it.  168;  obliging  dispo- 
sition of  the  goat  in  regard 
to  it,  211. 

Gray,  Thomas:  quoted,  27. 

Grayling:  described,  285-287. 

Gross- Venediger:  the,  210-214. 

Guides:  Adirondack,  76;  Cana- 
dian, 229-234. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene:  quoted, 
247. 

Hallstatt:   278. 

Haste:  the  folly  of,  146,  147. 

B~zlitt,  William:  quoted,  267. 

Heine,  Heinrich:  quoted,  227. 

Hoosier  Schoolmaster,  the:  the 
solidity  of  his  views,  14. 

Hornet:  the  unexpected  quality 
of  his  sting,  79,  80. 

Horse-yacht:  a  description  of, 
138;  drawbacks  and  advan- 
tages, 146,  147. 

Hospitality:  in  a  Highland  cot- 
tage, 115,  116;  among  anglers, 
144;  in  an  Alpine  hut,  211. 

Housekeeping:  the  ideal,  315. 

Human  nature:  best  seen  in 
little  ways,  31,  32;  a  touch  of, 
318. 

Humour:  American,  difficult 
for  foreigners,  177;  plain, 
best  enjoyed  out-of-doors,  224, 
225. 

Idealist:  a  boy  is  the  true,  51. 

Ideals:  the  advantage  of  cher- 
ishing, 240. 

Idleness:  occasionally  profit- 
able, 34. 


Immortality:  the  hope  of,  180; 

love  makes  it  worth  having, 

335. 

Indian:  the  noble,  247. 
Insects:  classified  according  to 

malignity,  245  ff. 
Ischl,    282,  283. 

James,  Henry:  his  accuracy  In 

words,  30. 
Johnson,     Robert    Underwood: 

quoted,  23,  24. 

Kenogami,  Lake,  316  ff. 

Lairg,  140. 

Lake  George,  44  ff. 

Lamb,  Charles:  his  poor  opin- 
ion of  aqueducts,  13;  his  dis- 
inclination to  reading  out-of- 
doors,  331. 

Landro,  198,  199. 

Lanier,  Sidney:  quoted,  28. 

Lienz,  203  ff. 

Life:  more  in  it  than  making 
a  living,  35,  36. 

Littleness:  praised,  17,  18. 

London:  the  way  to  see,  2L 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth: 
quoted,  187. 

Love:  a  boy's  introduction  to, 
50;  a  safe  course  in,  98,  99; 
the  true  meaning^of,  132;  un- 
certainty of  its  course,  326. 

Lowell,  James  Russell:  a  remi- 
niscence of  him,  16. 

Luck:  defined,  64. 

Lucretius,  T.:  quoted,  18. 

Lumbermen:  their  share  in 
making  our  homes,  264. 

Mabie,   Hamilton   W.:   quoted, 

216. 

"Maclaren,  Ian,"  97. 
Manners :    their    charm,    when 

plain  and  good,  209. 


344 


INDEX 


Marvell,  Andrew:  quoted,  226. 

Medicinal  Springs:  an  instance 
of  their  harmlessness,  59,  60. 

Meditation:  an  aid  to,  161;  on 
the  building  of  a  house,  264; 
at  night-fall,  290. 

Melvich,   113. 

Memory:  associated  with  odours, 
39;  capricious,  120;  awakened 
by  a  word,  217;  sweetest  when 
shared  by  two,  335. 

Metapedia,  137. 

Midges:  animated  pepper,  228. 

Milton,  John:  quoted,  316,  332. 

Mint:  a  symbol  of  remem- 
brance, 40,  41. 

Misurina,   Lake,  195. 

Mountains:  their  influence,  11; 
invitations  to  climb,  71,  72; 
growth  of  trees  upon  them, 
83-85;  the  Adirondacks,  87; 
the  Dolomites,  169  ff. ;  the 
Hohe  Tauern,  205  ff.;  of  the 
Salzkammergut,  270  ff. 

Mountain-climbing:  charms  of, 
79  ff.;  moderation  In,  187; 
disappointment  in,  213,  214. 

Mosquito:  his  mitigating  quali- 
ties, 246. 

Naaman,  the  Syrian:  his  senti- 
ment about  rivers,  16. 
Naming  things:  pleasure  of ,313. 
Navigable  rivers:  defined,  60. 
Neu-Prags:  the  Baths  of,  201. 
Noah:  a  question  about,  164. 
Nuvolau,  Mount,  187  ff. 

Old  Age:  sympathy  with  youth, 
126;  the  wisdom  and  beauty 
of,  128-130;  preparation  for, 


Paley,    the    Rev.    Dr.:   quoted, 

135. 
Patience:   not  the  only  virtue, 

46. 
Peasant-life:   the  perils   of,    in 

the  Tyrol,  206-208. 
Perch:   a  good  fish  for  nurses 

to  catch,  44. 
Philosophers:    a    camp   of,    88; 

their  explanation  of  humour, 

167. 
Philosophy:    of    a    happy    life, 

128;  of  travel,  167;  of  success, 

183;  of  housekeeping,  313-315; 

of  perpetual  youth,  333-335. 
Photography:  its  difficulties,  89- 

91;    a    good    occupation    for 

young  women,  146. 
Plan,  Mount,  196. 
Pike,  243,  252,  302. 
Pleasures:    simple,    not    to    be 

purchased  with  money,  165. 
Plenty:  a  symbol  of,  72. 
Prayer:    the    secret    of    peace, 

180,   131;  In  a   Tyrolese  hut, 

211;  thoughts  almost  as  good 

as,  293. 
Preaching:    under   supervision, 

103. 
Predestination:  an  instance  of 

faith  in,  114. 

Prime,  W.  C.:  quoted,  302. 
Pronunciation:  courage  in,  141. 
Prosperity:  should  be  prepared 

for  in  the  time  of  adversity, 

240. 


Quarles,  Francis:  his  emblems, 

89. 
Quebec,  297. 


Ouananiche,    228,    235,    236,   252,  Railway  travel:  beside  a  littlt 

253,  256-258,  306  ff.,  330.  river,  19;  its  general  charac- 

Oven:   the  shrine   of  the   good  ter,  168. 

housewife,  240.  Rapids,  222  ff. 

345 


INDEX 


Relations:    the    advantage    of 
temporary    separation    from, 
315;   distinguished  from   con- 
nections by  marriage,  316. 
Religion:  the  best  evidence  of, 

130. 
Resignation:  the  courage  of  old 

age,  128. 

Rivers:  their  personality,  9,  13; 
in  different  countries,  15;  lit- 
tle ones  the  best,  16-19;  meth- 
ods of  knowing  them,  22,  33; 
advantages  of  their  friend- 
ship, 22-30;  their  small  re- 
sponsibilities, 33;  pleasure  of 
watching  them,  161;  variety 
of  life  upon,  236;  disconsolate 
when  dry,  250;  merry  in  the 
rain,  272;  the  voice  of,  327. 
Rivers  named: 

Abana,  17. 

yEsopus,  20. 

Allegash,  18. 

A  1'Ours,  237,  241. 

Amazon,  18. 

Ampersand,  19,  69* 

Arno,  19,  21. 

Aroostook,  18. 

Ausable,  18. 

Batiscan,  15. 

Beaverkill,  18,  28. 

Blanche,  250. 

Boite,  171,  172. 

Boquet,  15. 

Cam,  21. 

Connecticut,  18. 

Dee,  123. 

Delaware,  16. 

Des  Aunes,  237. 

Dove,  19,  144. 

Drau,  203. 

Bricht,  19,  147. 

French  Broad,  20. 

Glommen,  20. 

Grand     DScharge,     220    ff., 
302  ff. 


Rivers  named: 

Gula,  20. 

Halladale,  19. 

Hudson,  16. 

Isel,  203. 

Kaaterskill,  58-60. 

La  Belle  Riviere,  220,  317  ft 

La  Pipe,  *20. 

Lycoming,  53. 

Metapedia,  142. 

Mississippi,  18. 

Mistassini,  220. 

Mistook,  229. 

Moose,  18. 

Neversink,  18,  59. 

Niagara,  18. 

Opalescent,  63. 

Ouiatchouan,  220. 

Patapedia,  142. 

Penobscot,  19. 

Peribonca,  19,  220,  259  ff. 

Pharpar,  17. 

Piave,  171,  172. 

Pikouabi,  220. 

Quatawamkedgwick,  142* 

Raquette,  18. 

Rauma,  19. 

Rienz,  20,  171. 

Bistigouche,  19,  137  ft 

Rocky  Run,  54. 

Rotha,  19. 

Saguenay,  219. 

Salzach,  19. 

Saranac,  18,  64,  73. 

Swiftwater,  18,  40,  66. 

Thames,  19,  21. 

Traun,  267  ff. 

Tweed,  19. 

Upsalquitch,  142. 

Wharfe,  226. 

Ziller,  19. 
Roberval,  220. 
Rome:  the  best  point  of  Vl«W 

In,  21. 

Rudder  Grange:  the  author  of* 
14. 


346 


INDEX 


St.  John,  Lake:  218  ff.,  298  ff. 

Salmon:  a  literary,  106;  a  plain, 
152-155;  a  delusive,  158-160; 
curious  habit  of  leaping  on 
Sunday,  162;  manner  of  ang- 
ling for,  151-153. 

Sea,  the:  disadvantages  of  lov- 
ing, 10. 

Semiramis:  her  husband,  17. 

Seneca,  L.  Annaeus:  his  advice 
concerning  altars,  12. 

Scotch  character:  contrasted 
with  the  English,  107-110;  cau- 
tion, 103,  118;  Orthodoxy,  119; 
true  religion,  128-131. 

Seriousness:  may  be  carried  too 
far,  34. 

Shakspere,  William:  quoted, 
295. 

Slosson,  Annie  Trumbull:  her 
story  of  Fishin'  Jimmy,  331. 

Solomon:  Improved,  42;  quoted, 
104. 

Songs,  French,  324  ff. 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis:  on 
rivers,  8;  on  friendship  be- 
tween young  and  old,  127;  his 
last  prayer,  131;  on  camping- 
out,  318. 

Stornoway,  100  ff. 

Sunday:  reflections  upon,  159- 
161;  a  good  way  to  spend,  331- 
333. 

Sun-fish:  their  superciliousness 
when  over-fed,  44. 

Tea:  preferred  to  whisky,  233. 
Tennyson,    Alfred:    quoted,    14, 

27,  33,  53,  141,  251. 
Tents:     their     superiority     to 

houses,  299,   300. 
Time,  old  Father:  the  best  way 

to  get  along  with,  146. 
Titian:  his  landscapes,  173. 
Toblach,  Lake  of,  198-200. 
Trees:    their    human    associa- 


tions, 10-12;  their  growth  on 
mountains,  83-85;  advisability 
of  sparing,  238;  on  their  way 
to  market,  250;  their  person- 
ality, 302. 
Trees  named: 

Alder,  54,  241,  270. 

Ash,  270. 

Balm  of  Gilead,  39,  239. 

Balsam,  83,  227,  251,  301,  314. 

Beech,  81. 

Birch,    white,    55,    226,    257, 
303  ff . 

Birch,  yellow,  80. 

Cedar,  white,  226,  251,  256. 

Fir,  205,  270,  290. 

Hemlock,  16,  25,  64,  83,  85, 
301. 

Horse-chestnut,  10. 

Larch,  174,  185. 

Maple,  9,  54,  80. 

Oak,  11,  289. 

Pine,     -    84. 

Poplar,  240,  268. 

Pussywillow,  3,  36. 

Spruce,    16,    83-85,   226,    248, 

251,  256,  301,  317. 
Trout-fishing:  a  beginning  at, 
46;  a  specimen  of,  74;  in  Scot- 
land, 110,  111,  116-118;  in  the 
Tyrol,  195,  199;  in  the  Traum, 
269  ff.;  in  Canada,  149,  242  ff., 
318  ff. 

Universe:  no  man  responsible 
for  the  charge  of  it,  continu- 
ously, 34. 

Utilitarianism:  a  mistake,  240. 

Venice:  in  warm  weather,  167, 

168. 

Veracity:  affected  by  fish,  254. 
Virgil:  quoted,  269. 

Walton,  Izaak:  quoted,  33,  36, 
75,  165,  276;  his  ill  fortune  as 
a  fisherman,  163. 


847 


INDEX 


Warner,  Charles  Dudley:  his 
description  of  an  open  fire, 
19. 

Watts,  Isaac:  quoted,  18. 

Whitman,  Walt:  quoted,  256. 

Wilson,  John:  his  description  of 
a  bishop,  31;  his  scepticism 
about  all  fish  stories  but  his 
own,  330. 

Wish:  a  modest,  3-5. 

Wolfgang,  Saint:  his  lake,  288; 
his  good  taste,  289. 


Women:  prudence  in  expressing 
an  opinion  about,  18;  more 
conservative  than  men,  184; 
problematic  quality  of,  297; 
generous  rivals  (in  angling), 
311. 

Words:  their  magic,  217. 

Wordsworth,  William:  quoted, 
27,  120,  229,  250. 

Youth:  the  secret  of  preserviof 
it,  334. 


P53//  7 


